


Unextinguished Good

by ContrEeri



Series: That Which We Are, We Are [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Albino Luna Lovegood, Black Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Deathly Hallows AU, F/M, Gen, HP: EWE, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, Present Tense, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContrEeri/pseuds/ContrEeri
Summary: Draco Malfoy is, like his wand, conflicted in nature and passing through turmoil; he is contradictory and full of paradox. He is the son of a Death Eater and he bears the Dark Mark, but he cannot stand all the death and torture; he is beginning to doubt the things he has been raised to believe; he no longer wants a world ruled by Lord Voldemort and his ideologies. Instead, he hopes that Harry Potter will save them. He does not discuss his changing heart, and he does not intend to do more than survive this war. He is not a hero, he is not self-sacrificing or brave, he is not good and pure--but like his wand, which at the core holds unicorn hair, there is some good in him. All he needs is to make the right choice.





	1. Ten Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by JKR's weird animosity towards Draco and the idea that he could be more than what he was--at least on Pottermore, the way she's talked about him always kind of bothered me. I don't pretend that Draco wasn't cruel and nasty. He absolutely was, and I think that H/D fandom sometimes forgets that--at least it was fairly common to sort of forget his nastiness back in the day. But he was a child, and I think of all the characters he deserved a redemption arc. He deserved to be more dynamic, to be given the chance. JKR herself said, contradicting herself over and over on Pottermore, that his wand's core being unicorn hair was a conscious choice: the core of his wand shows that there is some unextinguished good in him. I took that idea and ran away with it. 
> 
> This is now a prequel. The series this is a part of is "That Which We Are, We Are" (the title of this series comes from the poem 'Ulysses' by Alfred Tennyson)
> 
> Thanks to tumblr user, 12-grimmauld-place, for the help with beta'ng! You're the best!

“I’m forcing us both to confront the fact that one of our most beautiful dreams was a lie. We both believed in destiny as a kind of guarantee—a promise from the cosmos that we would have our time together in virtually every world we shared. But now I see that believing only in destiny means giving up responsibility. We fooled ourselves into thinking happiness was a gift we would be given time and time again. It’s so much scarier to admit that our lives are in our own flawed, fallible hands. Our futures are not kept safe for us in the cradle of fate. We have to hack them out of stone, dig them out of mud, and build them one messy, imperfect day at a time.”  
―Claudia Gray, _A Million Worlds with You_

Prologue: Ten Seconds

It's a choice that he doesn't realise he's making because it is made in a fraction of a second, made too fast for him to realise he has made it at all before he has to act upon it. There shouldn't have been time for decision making, but it is as though someone has cast an Impedimenta Jinx on the occupants of the room. Ten insignificant seconds is all the time you have to change the tide with this jinx. Ten seconds, he thinks, is not much time to change anyone's destiny and yet... 

There is chaos around him: bright lights, screaming, the crash of the chandelier, blood is dripping into his eyes, his wand is missing, there is the crack of Apparation, and his aunt's knife is in her hand. Harry Potter is standing with a goblin thrown over his shoulder, his face no longer puffy, but fierce and recognizable. He is every inch the hero everyone has always said he is. 

And this is when the world slows down, a measly ten seconds drawn out slowly, stretched like taffy until they might snap: his aunt raises her knife—ten; Potter's hand closes around Dobby's—nine; and Draco's feet move before he knows what he's doing—eight. 

His mother is too frozen in fear or shock to react, and so her hands fall from around his shoulders as he slips away from her to race the knife to its destination—seven. Potter and Dobby are turning, slowly, slowly; Potter's hair, so much longer than before, seems to blow on a breeze and his robes billow—six. The knife glints in the light, glass glistens on the floor, Potter's eyes are so green—five. His aunt screams—four. 

“Draco!” his mother cries—three. 

There is a moment where his breath comes out on a gasp as he collides with the Disapparating threesome, a split second where his stomach lurches as the pull of Apparation yanks at his core—two; a period so brief, yet so long that it hangs, frozen in time, where he feels the sharp bite of metal at his back and his heart stops—one.

He is sucked in with Potter, away from the Manor and his screaming aunt; he is traveling in the space between, his atoms on fire as he is squeezed to the point of destruction. The world has slipped from him and all he sees are stars in the vibrancy of Potter's wide green eyes; he feels something ripping at him and he forgets that Greyback is not there to tear him apart. But something is tearing him apart, something is ripping at his back, and if he'd had a voice to scream with he would have—zero.

The world is suddenly around him, whooshing back into focus as he lands so forcefully his knees buckle. Time rushes back to him as the jinx abruptly ends. 

“Malfoy,” Potter's voice is confused, his body is pressed against Draco's but he is already pulling away and Draco's knees are too weak to hold him up. The moment drags like nails against his skin as the warm press of a solid, grounding body leaves him. He feels his stomach knot, his heart beats an erratic tattoo against his chest, his legs shake, and there is something warm and wet at his back. His vision swims. 

“I...saved...you...” The words come unbidden. For a moment, Draco is a hero—he has never in his life been a hero, he thinks in a haze. Potter, standing in the Manor, dirty and thin and scruffier than ever, is always the hero. Draco laughs. It gurgles, as though he has a lungful of water. Something warm rolls down his chin. 

“Malfoy!” Potter is reaching for him again. There is a startled squeak followed by a bright flash of light. A tingling sensation washes over him, as though his foot has fallen asleep except it is his whole body. His mind slips further into darkness, his legs finally give out, and Potter catches him. Draco thinks, a bit drunkenly, that Potter's arms are stronger than they should be for someone who's so scrawny. 

“I...did it,” he says, and his voice comes weaker than before, farther away. He wonders if Potter knows that he saved him, he wonders if Potter realises that Draco hadn't wanted any of this. The thought that Potter doesn't know sends panic through him like a poison, he opens his eyes as wide as they'll go, reaching for Potter's face to tell him—he has to tell him, he needs to tell him, it is so vitally important that Draco tell him this one, impossibly important thing that he has kept locked inside his heart for over a year. It bubbles up like the gurgling of his laughter and he sees a pale hand, sees the fingers press gently against Potter's cheek—stark white against soft bronze—and then the world slips away.


	2. The Willing Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably the nicest prison he's ever been in. He's certainly got the nicest wardens (well, two of them at any rate).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been trying to go over this for edits since yesterday, but I'm terribly sick so it's taken me two full days to get through this. I blame not being at Fanime for the first time since I started going in 2008 on being sick. Either way, I would really like to feel better because I have work tomorrow. Anyways, the next chapter will be up soon enough. I just want to finish chapter three before then. I'm still not really sure where this is going or how long it'll be, but I'm kinda excited for that. Been a long time since I've posted something involved that's a WIP. Usually, I have everything plotted out perfectly... Oh, also, I haven't done this in a while, but I am in the market for a beta so if anyone who comes across this and also happens to like Naruto wants to beta for me that'd be super <3

He wakes in a fog. It reminds him of Dementors. Everything feels grey and heavy, and his mind moves slowly. His thoughts are muddled, but he is aware enough to realise that he is still half-asleep. A dream floats just beyond comprehension, a whisper of something he can't quite grasp. 

“I saved you,” someone whispers, floating like a memory somewhere within the fog. He rises slowly, closer now to the light. The gray fades, replaced by blue. His body is warm, but the weight has not left his limbs. There is a noise somewhere close by and his mind snaps awake. Everything comes into focus, including the excruciating pain that has overwhelmed his back. He tries not to move, but the pain that has taken hold of him is such a shock that he arcs his body and cries out. 

There is another sound—of scraping wood and footsteps—that he hears only distantly because the pain is the most present thing on his mind. He feels as though his back is run through, as though his spine is on fire. He wants to fall back into the fog, into oblivion, but he is now present and grounded in his agony. 

“Don't move,” a voice says, quiet and serene. A hand, warm and soft, touches him. “Please stop moving.” 

Finally, tears in his eyes and the pain still screaming through him, he manages to still. He opens his eyes enough to squint into the wide, clear eyes of Luna Lovegood. He feels guilt stirring in his stomach, or perhaps it's simply the urge to throw up. 

“W-where—” His voice cracks, like a wand snapping. He coughs and pain is all he knows again.

“Shh,” Luna says quietly. Her hand on his forehead is strangely soothing, as though she doesn't need a wand to heal. The warmth radiates outward from where she touches him, she smooths his hair back, humming softly. “There, there. I have a potion for you.” 

“I—” He clamps down on the need to cough, just barely. “W-where am I?” 

“You're at Shell Cottage,” she says simply as though this explains everything. “You were quite brave, jumping in front of that knife.” 

He is momentarily caught off guard. His memory is still fuzzy, but it begins to come back to him in little bits and pieces, like the wisps in a penseive. He knows that he has done something incredibly reckless, incredibly selfless, but looking back on the memories is like watching someone else, an actor in a play. That could not have been him; Draco has never been brave in his entire life. 

“Potter—is he—” The question hangs between them, heavy with meaning. He almost doesn't want to know the answer. He hopes that his uncharacteristic moment of clarity, of bravery, of foolishness was not in vain. He hopes that Potter did not somehow still die, perhaps tripping over something and breaking his neck when they had Apparated wherever it was he had taken them to. 

“Harry's very well,” Luna assures. She has a vial in hand; it is blue and crystalline, distorting whatever lies within. “You should drink this. You were quite badly injured, you see. I've been tending to you all week—”

“A-all week?” Draco sits up, then collapses back onto the bed with an agonized cry. 

Luna makes a soft sound, concern edging into her otherwise peaceful expression. “You are quite excitable,” she says, tilting her head. Her hair catches the light, catches Draco's eye, and he is reminded of the moment when he'd seen his aunt's knife and _known_. At least he has saved Potter, even if the pain of it is unbearable. 

“Can you drink this?” Luna asks him finally, uncorking the vial and bringing it close to his mouth. 

He opens his mouth, accepting without question that Luna is trying to help him. For all he knows the potion she has just given him will kill him or perhaps turn him into a Squib, but there is something about Luna Lovegood that comforts him. She was a salve to his guilt and fear during his visit to the Manor, but he is still surprised to find her kindness extends beyond her imprisonment. 

The moment the liquid—which is ice cold and refreshing, then warm and soothing—passes his lips he feels the pain in his back beginning to fade. His muscles ease, relaxing as tension melts away, and he is suddenly aware of how hungry he is. He licks his lips, turning to look at Luna again. Her gaze is still rooted to him, unwavering, except for the way her irises seem to shake, the blue of them so clear he thinks he sees red. 

“Thank you,” he manages, the words strange on his tongue. He cannot remember the last time he has said those words and meant them so deeply, so genuinely. He moves to sit, but Luna places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. 

“You really shouldn't move,” she says. “Your injuries are still quite bad.” 

“I remember. The knife—”

“Oh, that wasn't the worst of it. You nearly splinched yourself right in half. It was lucky Dobby was there to help,” she explains. “He's such a sweet elf.” 

“I—I splinched—” He looks down, trying to see what body part might be missing or damaged beyond repair. 

“Your back,” she explains. “Where the knife hit you. It was really quite gruesome.” 

Draco boggles at her. “Is it...is it that bad?” 

Luna nods. “Quite. I've done what I can, of course,” she explains, patting his hand to reassure him. “I don't know if I'm the best healer, so you'll have scars, but you were really lucky. The knife was quite close to your spine, and the splinching—well, I'm just happy to see you're awake finally. Shall I bring you some food?” 

He tries to take all this in, but his mind has shut down, no longer able to process the gravity of the situation he has found himself in. All it had taken was ten seconds to completely uproot his life. It shouldn't have been so significant, it shouldn't have been enough time for something so life-changing to occur, yet here he is, injured and in an unknown place, being tended to by those who would call him enemy. 

“Draco?” Luna asks, and he can hear the calm in her voice making way for concern. 

“What?” he croaks, turning to look at her. 

“Would you like lunch?” 

He nods, feeling as numb as the pain in his back. Luna is gone before he can say anything else and he is left staring up at the ceiling wondering just how close he'd come to death. 

Luna returns too quickly for him to fall into a fit of melancholy, humming as she enters the room. She has a tray of steaming food and Draco's stomach rolls. 

“Here we are,” she says, beaming down at him with her dreamy smile and her wide eyes. She has pulled the thick blonde coils of her hair back into a pony-tale, and a moment later Draco realises it is so she can help him eat. Though his body is pleasantly numb, he still feels an indignant blush rising in his face. He tries not to let it show, tries not to be ungrateful as she helps him to sit and stuffs a large number of pillows behind him to keep him propped up.

“Am I really this much of an invalid?” he snaps without meaning to. Luna is unfazed. 

“You are,” she says, before placing the tray in front of him and scooping up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and holding it before him. 

“I can move,” he points out, and attempts to demonstrate. His hand does as he instructs, but his fingers are clumsy and he drops the spoon that Luna has offered to him. His face is hot, he is sure his skin has turned blotchy with the pinkness of his embarrassment, and he avoids Luna's gaze as she picks up the spoon and replenishes the mashed potatoes on it. 

He allows her to feed him because he is starving and because she was a prisoner in his home for months and the guilt is enough to curb his tongue. He does not understand her kindness, but he appreciates it enough to know not to be ungrateful. They could have let him die, after all. It would have been a fitting end: his one good deed, dying to protect Harry Potter. 

When his plate is empty and Luna is rising to leave, Draco speaks.

“Is Potter—is he here?” 

“Oh yes,” Luna says, but doesn't elaborate further as she picks up the tray and turns to leave. 

“Can—I mean, will he—does he know I'm awake?” 

Luna turns, blinking owlishly at him. “Of course he knows. He was the one who told me to check on you.” 

Draco frowns, but he misses the chance to ask Luna anymore questions before she is leaving. The door closes behind her with a click and he is alone in this unfamiliar room with far too many unanswered questions. 

***

Luna brings Draco meals three times a day. She is the only one, and he surmises that it's because she is the only one willing to spend any time in his presence. Each day passes the same as the last as Draco heals. He is bored and lonely, but growing less confused as the days go by thanks to Luna. She answers most of his questions readily, though often times in ways that need deciphering. When she is not with him, she is with Dean Thomas or Ollivander or helping Fleur Weasley. Draco doesn't know what Potter is doing because neither does Luna, but they both know that he is planning something. From what Luna has said, Draco knows that Potter spends all of his time hiding out with Weasley, Granger, and the goblin. Draco wonders and worries, though he keeps the latter a close guarded secret even though he is sure Luna sees right through him. 

Eventually, he is healed enough to move around on his own. 

“You don't have to sit with me anymore,” he tells Luna. April has come and with it Luna seems more determined to spend her time out of doors, chasing imaginary beasts that Draco has grown fond of hearing about. He wishes he could join her outside, but his back still twinges painfully if he stands for too long. More importantly, he knows that he is not a guest in this house. 

“Why wouldn't I sit with you for lunch?” Luna asks, her own plate in her lap. “Do you not want my company?” 

“That's not it,” he says immediately. He is desperate for her company, for any company, but hers is special. Her mere presence is a healing force, and it reaffirms that the choice he made was right when he struggles against the knowledge of what he's done and what his family will say. He spends many nights tossing and turning, feverish dreams of his past and present; of the choices he's made and hasn't made overwhelming him, and he always wakes feeling ill and unrested. Luna is always there almost immediately upon his waking, bringing her special brand of warm kindness and breakfast, and always a dreamy smile for him that he is sure he doesn't deserve. Draco has never thought too long about what it means to love someone unselfishly—someone not bound by family ties—but he thinks he loves Luna Lovegood. It is a soft, warm, tender thing that soothes his conflicted heart and mind, the way she has soothed his back with potions and spells. In the space of two weeks—only one of which he was conscious for—she has become his best friend. 

Luna smiles at him, reaching to pat his hand. “I like your company,” she tells him. “You always seem so lonely in here.” 

Her capacity for knowing exactly what he is feeling still unnerves him, the way her eyes unnerve him sometimes—though not because they shake slightly or seem just a bit red. It is simply because they see right through him, to the heart of him. Draco does not think Luna herself is a Seer, perhaps an Empath, but he isn't sure. What he does know is that she is the only true friend he has known in over a year and it scares him that she knows him so well already. 

“You should come outside,” she says. 

Draco shakes his head. “That's not a good idea.” 

Luna sighs, settling back in her seat. “It would do you good to get out. Lying about all day is only going to fill your head with wrackspurts.” 

Draco doesn't know what wrackspurts are, but he is sure Luna will explain it to him. She is, in fact, opening her mouth to speak when there is a knock on the door. Draco's heart quickens and his chest tightens. He has not seen a single person besides Luna since waking, and he is not quite sure he wants to. 

“Coming,” Luna says, rising to her feet and moving to the door. 

Potter is standing on the other side, looking grimly determined. He is shorter than Draco, but somehow seems taller. Everything about him seems so much more, and Draco's breath is caught between his lungs, his heart beating so furiously it might burst from his chest. Some part of him had known it would be Potter, but he was not ready for the reality of seeing Potter. 

“I need to talk to Malfoy,” Potter says. He sounds commanding, like a general; like the leader he must be amongst Granger and Weasley while they're off doing Merlin knows what to stop the Dark Lord. 

Luna glances back at Draco, gracing him with a quick, dreamy smile as though to reassure him before she leaves the room. Potter steps in and closes the door. He flicks his wand— _Draco's_ wand—muttering a spell, but doesn't move closer for a long moment. They stare at one another in silence until Draco finally looks away. 

“I assume you've come to tell me I need to leave,” Draco finally says, his voice haughty despite his attempts at sounding as resigned as he feels. He is not good at conveying his true feelings, he never has been. He becomes defensive and stubborn, and a bit nasty when he feels cornered or wrong-footed. Potter always makes him feel particularly wrong-footed and Draco is always nasty to him because of it. Of course, he was also nasty to Potter because he was envious and because Potter was the antithesis for everything Draco believed to be true. There has never been a time, that Draco can recall, where he was not nasty to Potter for one reason or another, and now when he wants to be anything but, he doesn't know how. 

Potter moves to take Luna's seat, still holding Draco's wand in a tight grip. “You can't leave,” Potter says, his voice tight. 

Draco raises his eyebrows, fighting not to sneer. “I'm not being kicked out?” 

“No. Couldn't even if we wanted to, could we? I mean, Bill's Secret Keeper, but—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Sorry, Malfoy, you're stuck here.” 

Draco is more relieved than he wants to admit to Potter. He would not know where to go after everything that had transpired at the Manor. He certainly couldn't go back home and Hogwarts wasn't any safer. Shell Cottage was safe and warm and there were no foul memories to bite at his heels as he walks down the halls—not that he does that here, but it is the principle of the matter. Here, the only bad dreams are the product of his own conflicted heart. 

“So, I'm staying,” he says, looking up at Potter. Potter's expression is difficult to read, which unnerves Draco. Usually, he knows what's going on in Potter's head—or at least, has a fairly good grasp on it. It's what makes it so easy for him to get under Potter's skin; Potter's heart is always so exposed, so vulnerable to the outside world, and Draco has always relied on that to strike at him where it will hurt most. Staring at Potter now, Draco feels that the tables have turned; now Potter is the one who can see to his heart and Draco does not want to know what he will do with it. 

“Yeah,” Potter says, then, “until this is over, you can't leave.” 

Draco nods. “I'm not going to complain, if that's what you're thinking.” 

Potter raises his eyebrows, but visibly relaxes. “No?” 

“I'd rather be your prisoner than his,” is all he says. 

“You're not a prisoner, Malfoy. You're just—” He doesn't know what Draco is and struggles to figure it out. Draco does not live in Potter's idealistic world, however. He knows exactly what he is and has no qualms with it. 

“I am,” he counters before Potter can come up with something to sugar coat the situation. “Just because there aren't bars and I have a nice bed and regular meals doesn't mean I'm not a prisoner.” 

Potter eyes Draco, fiddling absentmindedly with Draco's wand. He shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Malfoy. Look, I only came in here because I needed to talk to you about your wand.” 

Draco frowns. “You're not giving it back I take it.” 

Potter shakes his head. “I need it. My wand's broken, and I can't very well kill him without a wand, can I? So I'm going to use it, but I'll give it back once he's dead.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? What do you mean 'why'?” 

“Why would you give it back?” 

Potter is caught off guard and for a moment Draco sees him as he used to. The moment passes almost instantly, too brief for Draco to find understanding. “It's yours, Malfoy. I only need it for as long as it takes to kill him. And I think yours is the only wand that can.” 

Draco frowns. “I don't understand.” 

“You don't need to. I just need you to know that I've got your wand, but I'm not keeping it. I—I'm not asking, or anything, but I guess I just want you to know.” Potter shrugs, suddenly at a lost, the commanding aura around him seems to flicker and again Draco has a glimpse of the boy Potter used to be before the war. He sees that Potter is as uncertain about Draco's presence in this place as Draco is. 

He is overcome by the urge to smile—not sneer, but smile. Potter is the same as ever beneath everything, and it is a relief to see it, to know that the war has not changed this innate part of Potter. 

“What?” Potter snaps, and Draco belatedly realises that he has given in to this passing urge. He quickly looks away. 

“Nothing. Just—take care not to break it. I would like it back when all is said and done.” 

Potter searches his face for a long moment, then nods. “I'll do that.” He rises to his feet, and that must be it. Potter had only come to Draco to tell him he was going to use his wand—it is so silly, so very like Potter, and Draco is so grateful for this moment because he suddenly feels as though everything will be okay. It bubbles up in him like a laugh that cannot be controlled, though he very much wants to control it; to clamp down on it and bury it before he can dare to hope. 

“Oh, I forgot,” Potter says at the door. He turns, catching and holding Draco's gaze with his own for a long moment. It is charged and heavy, and Draco does not know what to expect. He holds his breath. 

“Thanks,” Potter says, unsure and hesitant. 

The word feels strange between them, and just a bit anticlimactic. Draco didn't know what Potter was going to say, but a simple 'thanks' does not communicate anything. There has never been any reason for Potter to thank him, and Draco cannot think of one now, but Harry Potter's gratitude is a strange enough thing to be receiving that Draco wants to understand and, more importantly, wants to be deserving. 

“What ever for?” he asks. 

“For saving me. For saving us at the Manor.” 

“I didn't do much.” 

“You didn't identify me—you wouldn't.” Potter is gaining confidence as he explains, sounding less awkward and unsure of expressing his gratitude. “I know you knew it was me, but you wouldn't do it. You could have, you know? And then I wouldn't be here right now. We wouldn't be able to stop him.” 

Draco shrugs, looking away. He does not deserve gratitude for this, and it feels like a blow to be offered such a rare thing for what was a weak attempt at heroics. Draco had done the bare minimum, nothing more. 

“And you know, for jumping in front of that knife,” Potter's attempt to sound cavalier about Draco throwing himself on a blade for him fails, and instead his voice is thick with emotion that Draco does not understand. “I don't know if you're aunt was trying to kill me—would be kind of silly for her to, given You-Know-Who wants to do it himself—but she could have. And I'm sorry you got hurt because of it, too.” 

Draco laughs. It is forced and unnatural, but once he has started he can't stop. He falls back against the pile of pillows that Luna still insists on, covering his face with his hands and letting himself go, losing himself for a moment in his laughter. It feels so good to just laugh, to let himself feel it bubbling up and out, to not bottle it up, to not water it down as he normally would. He laughs for all he's worth for a solid five minutes before it begins to hurt, his stomach muscles clenching and his back protesting with sharp bursts of pain. He is still far from perfectly healed, and his back makes sure to remind him of this often. 

His laughter turns pained and eventually it subsides. When it does, he finds Potter looking at him warily, as though he's concerned for Draco's well-being. 

“Er, you okay, Malfoy?” 

Draco snickers, wiping at his eyes. “It's just—you. You're ridiculous. You come in here, all important and serious, just to tell me as nicely as you can that you're using my wand whether I want you to or not—which, mind, I do want you to use it. Merlin I'd like nothing more than for the Dark Lord to be dead.” He has never said this out loud before, and the moment should be more significant than it is. Potter's expression is caught between shock and disbelief, but Draco continues, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart and the tightness in his chest. “But you—you're so—impossible. You're going to just give me my wand back after everything! As though I wasn't on their side, as though you weren't just held prisoner in my home! And then you thank me for doing the bare minimum to help you, and then apologize because I got hurt doing something actually useful. It's just—impossible.” 

The shock has faded and Potter is smiling now. It is a small smile, not blown wide across his face nor striking the way Veela are when they smile, but it catches at Draco's heart all the same. Potter has never smiled at him before. Draco has seen him smile, of course. He has seen him smiling at the Gryffindor table surrounded by his friends, while Draco watches from across the Great Hall; he has seen him smile while flying, racing Draco for the snitch; he has seen him smile in class when Weasley leans over and whispers something amusing in his ear and when Granger helps him to understand something the professor has said; he has seen Potter smile at Ginny Weasley, as though she is the sun; he has seen all manner of smiles on Potter, from the confused and tentative ones of their early Hogwarts days to the fond smiles he gifts his friends with to the victorious smiles after catching the snitch. He can remember them all perfectly, and not once have they been directed at Draco. 

He swallows, looking down at his hands, his own answering smile fighting to make itself known. 

“If I'm impossible,” Potter says, and the smile is still soft and unsure, but it fills Potter's voice so that Draco cannot avoid it, “then I wonder what that makes you?” 

Draco looks up. “Me?” 

Potter shrugs, turning away. “I mean, you're the one who jumped in front of that knife. If I thought anything was impossible, it'd be you doing something to save me.” 

Potter glances at Draco, meeting his gaze for a moment that spans only seconds but feels as though it lasts hours, and then he leaves. 

Draco sits in his room, staring at the place Potter had just been, remembering his smile and his gratitude and wishing for more. 

***

He wakes with a start, his heart hammering and a cold sweat making his skin clammy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping a shaking hand down his face. His back aches and there are tears in his eyes, but he pretends it is just sweat that has fallen into them that makes them burn. He swallows several times, trying to take in lungfuls of air in an attempt to calm himself, but the pain in his back spikes every time he tries to take a deep breath. It makes him breathe more erratically, his breath coming like gasps with none of the calming effects he needs. 

His eyes adjust to the darkness as he gasps; his room is dark save for a faint light coming from the moon, but it is enough that it is not pitch black. He does not like waking in pitch blackness anymore. 

It takes him several minutes to calm down, his back a mass of pain that makes it hard to breathe and his stomach turning over and over. These dreams are persistent; they are a constant reminder that Draco is not good or righteous, that he is fickle and self-serving, that he is a coward. This dream was, in some ways, worse than any of the previous ones: the Dark Lord had found him, had told him he knew what Draco had said, that Draco was plotting against him. Draco had begged for mercy, had promised he would do anything to prove he was loyal, anything at all so that he could live. 

_“Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord whispered. “Bring him to me.”_

Draco shivers at the memory of that voice, at the words spoken, but mostly he is horrified at his own willingness to do as instructed. All to save his own life. His sacrifice to save Potter amounts to nothing, means absolutely nothing in the wake of his own cowardice. 

There is a soft noise in the room, a noise apart from the natural creaking of a house, and Draco sits bolt upright. The motion is painful, but the shock at seeing Potter overrides it. Potter is sitting in Luna's usual spot, watching Draco carefully. His eyes are bright in the moonlight, but his expression is dark. 

“Planning on turning me over to him,” Potter says, his voice hard with challenge, yet full of acceptance. 

Draco wants to protest, but he finds the words hollow and lacking conviction. He shakes his head, the gesture subdued and easy to miss in the darkness. There is nothing he can say, and if Potter is smart he will haul Draco off somewhere dark and dank until he's defeated the Dark Lord, and then he will take Draco to Azkaban. And maybe break his wand for good measure. 

“What are you playing at, Malfoy?” Potter asks when Draco does not protest or offer up excuses. He sounds confused now, and maybe a bit desperate. Draco wonders at that, wonders why Potter would be so desperate over something so obvious as Draco's inevitable betrayal of him. 

“I—I'm not playing at anything,” he says weakly. 

“Bollocks,” Potter snaps. “Why are you here? Why did you jump in front of that knife? Why didn't you tell your dad it was me when you had the chance? You said today you wanted You-Know-Who dead, so why is it you're in here crying about how you'll bring me to him? Was that all an act? Did you mean it?” 

“Of course I meant it!” Draco doesn't mean to yell, but he is fighting a difficult battle within himself—has been since the moment Potter arrived at his home—and it is too much to have Potter interrogate him when he doesn't even understand what is happening or why he's done what he's done. “Do you think I like this? Any of it? Watching him torture people just for the pleasure of it? Having him in my home? Do you think I liked it when I watched him kill people? Just for existing! Just for teaching about Muggles, he killed someone!” 

“I know,” Potter says before Draco can gain anymore steam, and it forces him to stop. He is breathing heavy, staring at Potter, who meets his gaze in a way that grounds Draco. It feels as though he is a ship being tossed back and forth at sea, but then out of nowhere he is anchored and the storm is passing. 

“What?” he asks, breathless. 

“I know about that—all of it. I know you don't like it, but I don't get it. I don't get why you're here, why you saved me if you'd just as quickly turn me over to him.” 

“I don't know! Okay? I don't fucking know, Potter. Are you happy? I don't know why I jumped in front of that knife. I just—I just saw it and suddenly I was moving. It all happened so fast—” He is crying and he hates it; he hates himself and he hates Potter and he hates this stupid war for making him feel so weak, for exposing him time and again to Potter. He should be better at controlling his emotions than this, but the war has broken down his walls, made him vulnerable, and he doesn't have the energy to build them back up. “The only thing I know is that when you turned up at the Manor I—I was scared, okay? I was terrified. If he'd showed up—” He closes his eyes, shuddering. “Weasley, Granger... He'd have killed them without a second thought, and then he'd have killed you. I couldn't—I couldn't just let that happen.” 

“But—”

“No,” Draco cuts him off. “That's it. That's all there is to it. I don't know anything else, Potter. I'm not—I'm not like you, okay? I'm not brave, I'm not good. If he came to me right now, I don't know what I would do. I don't know what I would say. I don't like it, it doesn't make me feel good, but I don't know what else to tell you!” 

Potter sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He watches Draco in silence for a long moment, and Draco doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed or worried or guilty. He allows Potter's speculation in silence, waiting. 

“You're not so bad,” Potter finally says. He nods once, decisively, as though stating this makes it true and Draco cannot argue the point. “If you were, you wouldn't be having these nightmares.” 

“You're so sure?” Draco asks, his tone more acidic than he'd meant it to be. He is angry at himself, not Potter, but Potter is an easy target. “How do you know I won't turn you in to him?” 

Potter's gaze flicks to Draco's forearm. Covered as it is, the movement of his eyes carries weight. They both know what's beneath the fabric of his shirt sleeve. Draco swallows. 

“If you'd really wanted to turn me in,” Potter says softly, carefully, “you'd already have done it.” 

Potter rises from his seat, moving to the door. Draco suddenly doesn't want him to leave, but he's sure asking for Potter to stay would be a strange request, even under the circumstances. At the door, Potter hesitates, as though he senses Draco's desires. 

“I know you're scared,” Potter says, almost too quietly for Draco to hear. “I'm scared too, but I'm going to kill him. And when I do we'll make a better world. A world where this can't happen ever again.”

“I won't have a place in that world,” Draco says, and his voice breaks with the emotion of that realization. 

“You will.” 

Draco shakes his head, disbelieving but unsurprised: trust Potter to give him a chance he doesn't deserve. “How can you be so sure?” 

“Because I'll make a place for you in that world,” Potter says fiercely. He turns to look at Draco, and the way his eyes catch the moonlight is so unreal Draco is hypnotized. “I'm not fighting this war so that people aren't given second chances who deserve them. Whether you meant to or not, you saved us, and I think that counts for something. You can change, Malfoy. You already are, so stop fighting it and just let it happen.” He says the last in a huff, as though he is frustrated and less like he is trying to give a rousing speech. 

Draco is silent, still mesmerized by Potter's eyes and his words, and maybe just a little bit inspired. “And what happens when I do that?” 

Potter shrugs, turning away, breaking whatever spell he'd had Draco under. “I don't know, Malfoy. But don't you want to find out?” 

He waits, as though he expects Draco to answer. 

Draco doesn't know what he wants anymore. He had wanted so many things, he had believed so many things, but none of that has come to pass and now he sees how misguided his family was. What good could he possibly do? What second chance is there for someone like him? He is sure he has hurt too many people to deserve what Potter is offering, sure that no one else will give him the chance to redeem himself. 

But Potter is looking at him as though he believes in him, believes that there must be some good in him, and Potter had thanked him hours earlier. Draco wants to deserve Potters' faith and gratitude, and when he looks past all the turmoil he knows that he does want to see where this path will take him. He wants to have hope for his future. 

He nods to Potter, and that seems to be the right answer because Potter smiles. 

It is the second time Potter has smiled at him in his entire life. 

Draco isn't exactly sure what he's just agreed to, but he thinks if Potter keeps smiling at him like that, it might be worth it. 

***

He wakes feeling more rested than he has in nearly two years. There is still something heavy weighing on him, but he feels strong enough to carry that weight. After Potter's late night visit, Draco's nightmares did not return, and it is a relief to wake up feeling refreshed instead of exhausted for once. He decides to take advantage of this, and gets out of bed, stretching carefully, aware that his back is a mass of knotted, ugly scarring that always pains him upon waking. If he moves the wrong way, it will not go well for him, but he is careful and manages twenty minutes of stretching before Luna arrives with his breakfast. 

“Hullo,” she greets him, bringing in his breakfast. Her eyes linger on the bed before she sees him standing by the window. She beams. “You're out of bed.” 

Draco manages a small smile. “I don't think I can spend another day just lying about,” he admits. Truthfully, it is the first time in far too long that he doesn't want to spend the day in bed and he doesn't want to let the feeling pass him by. “I think I'd like to go outside after breakfast—and a shower,” he adds because while Luna's cleaning charms are passable, nothing is quite as good as hot water cascading down his shoulders. 

“Of course,” she agrees. She has brought him a full breakfast today, as though she had known he wouldn't want another day of oatmeal and toast. He wonders again, if Luna is not some sort of Empath. “Shall I leave you to it?” 

Draco is torn between wanting Luna's company and wanting time to himself. He hesitates to answer, but Luna seems to know before he does what he'll say because she is already heading to the door. “The bathroom is just down the hall,” she is saying. “Shall I tell the others you're about?” 

He nods. He has no desire to run into Weasley or Thomas, or—even worse—Granger on his way to shower. He expects that he will see the rest of the inhabitants of the house eventually, but he is not quite ready for that. After a shower, perhaps, but certainly not before. 

The breakfast Luna has brought him is comforting and filling, and quite possibly the best breakfast he's had in far too long. The meals at Hogwarts have not been filled with the usual splendor since Snape's becoming Headmaster. Draco cannot decide if this is because the elves are protesting, or if it is a matter of their own mourning and fear. The food is not bad, but it is certainly not great. 

The breakfast he eats now is like a revelation after months of barely eating sub par meals. His appetite had decreased greatly during his sixth year and has shown no signs of returning, but he decides that if Luna is making his breakfast he might find his appetite returned. After breakfast, he escapes to the bathroom for a hot shower. He turns the taps on so hot that the water makes his skin red, but he doesn't care. It feels like a cleansing, like he might be able to wash away all the nastiness that has festered in him, all the immoral and wrong things he has felt and believed. He knows this will not happen; it is just a regular shower, but he can imagine it is something more and that when he is finished he will come out a new man. 

He doesn't come out a new man. He is still Draco Malfoy. The Dark Mark is still there, a gruesome thing marring his skin. He avoids touching it at all cost, but he cannot avoid looking at it as he dries himself off. 

His clothes are rumpled and, despite many cleaning charms, not the freshest. He decides not to put them on, instead slipping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He will ask Luna if anyone might be able to help him clean his clothes or if someone has something spare he can wear in the meantime.

He is on the verge of slipping back into his room, when a familiar voice reaches him. He freezes, like a wild animal hunted, and turns to see Weasley at the end of the hall, staring down at him, a mix of anger and shock turning his ears redder and redder. 

“Who said you could leave your room?” he snaps, louder this time. 

Draco has no response. He knows he is a prisoner here, despite Potter's statements to the contrary and despite Luna's treatment of him, but he is not prepared to have Weasley as his warden. He backs into the door frame, walls coming up, and it is as much confirmation as the Dark Mark on his skin that he is not changed when he wants to bite back a nasty retort. He stops himself only when Granger's head pops out from the room Weasley had come from had. Her skin is no longer ashen and drained of blood, but back to its usual dark luster, glowing against the natural light filtering in through the windows in the cottage. Her expression when she sees him morphs, caught up in emotions he cannot understand. 

“Malfoy,” she says, and her voice is soft and trembling. He shrinks away from it as though she has slapped him. 

“G-Granger,” he manages. 

“Ron, come on.” She tugs at Weasley, but he doesn't budge. “Ron.” 

Weasley doesn't stop glaring at him, his face now red to match his ears and his fists clenched. “What, Hermione?” 

“Leave it,” she says pointedly. 

“Why? So he can run off and tell his Death Eater friends where we are?” 

“It wouldn't matter,” she snaps. “Bill's Secret Keeper—”

“So? All he has to do is say the name and then You-Know-Who—”

“Ron.” 

It's Potter who speaks now, like the general Draco had imagined he must have become for the war. He steps from the room, staring down the hall at Draco, then glancing back to Weasley. 

“Harry, come off it—”

“No,” Potter says, as though he has said this a hundred times. Draco realises that he probably has, that Weasley probably wanted him to die that night and probably will want him to die every night for the rest of his life. He wonders, a sick sort of curiosity, what has been said about him behind closed doors while he has recovered. 

Weasley's shoulders tense. “If he does something—”

“He won't.” Potter sounds angry now, his voice pitched low and hard. Draco cannot decide if Potter is defending him or if Potter is just that convinced that Draco is incapable of doing anything. He is overcome by a vicious need to prove Potter wrong, to say the name he would never dream of saying, just to prove that he _can_ do something, but that is not what he wants to do. It makes him sick that this is his first thought, makes him want to cut off the arm branded with the Dark Mark and throw it in the sea. He hates himself for wanting to prove that he is capable by doing harm. He wishes he were as good as Luna thinks or as capable of change as Potter believes. 

They are both under the pretty delusions of their ideologies; caught up in the belief in second chances and the ability to change when Draco is sure he is incapable. Whatever had transpired the night before between himself and Potter is forgotten when faced with the realities of his life, and for all that he feels more sure of what he has done, he is also sure that he could not do it again. 

“Harry, I don't like this,” Weasley says, quieter and less angry. “We can't trust him.” 

Draco has never agreed with Weasley on anything, and finds it almost funny that he agrees with him now. 

“Maybe,” Potter says, and Draco is simultaneously relieved and hurt. Potter secretly expects Draco's betrayal, which means when it finally comes it will hurt him less, but the fact that he expects stings just a bit. If even Potter doubts Draco, then why should Draco believe? Why should he follow this path of change? 

“Then why is he here?” 

“Because he saved us.” Potter is so simple. Draco wonders if he would feel this way about anyone else who'd saved him, even the worst of the worst, or if this sort of naive gift of a second chance is only reserved for Draco. He doubts the latter, but he also hopes that it is more true than the former. 

“Hardly,” Weasley snaps. “I bet that knife wouldn't have even got you. It's probably just some ploy to get close to you and find out about—”

“Ron,” Granger interrupts, her eyes darting to Draco. 

Weasley realises his mistake. “I just don't like him lurking about in Bill's home. It's not right.” 

“Can't be helped,” Potter says. “He stays.” 

“Fine, but he better not come near me or Hermione—”

Granger makes an irritated noise and narrows her eyes. “Don't you dare speak on my behalf, Ron. I'll decide whether or not Malfoy can talk to me.” 

“But—”

“No,” she says, and the tone of her voice is so final that Weasley doesn't open his mouth again. 

“Go on down for breakfast,” Potter says in the ensuing silence. “I'll be right there.” 

Weasley and Granger watch as Potter approaches Draco. Neither seem willing to leave, but Potter doesn't seem to notice or care. He nods towards Draco's room, stepping inside and waiting for Draco to follow. He does, but only after Granger tugs Weasley downstairs. He closes the door with a quiet click, but doesn't turn to face Potter.

“Shit.” Potter's voice is a bit strangled, though Draco cannot fathom why. “Luna said they were bad, but—”

Draco remembers in a panic that his scars are not covered and he whirls around, pressing his back up against the door. Draco has not seen his scars—cannot bringing himself to look—though he has felt them and knows how bad they are, but he does not want Potter to know. Potter's expression is nothing but horrified. Draco can see the guilt edging in, can see the need to apologize, but then Potter's eyes are on Draco's chest and his expression seems to break. 

Again, Draco is consumed by panic because there is nothing covering the thin scar that cuts across his chest, left over from a moment of teenage idiocy. He swallows, covering his chest with the bundle of clothes in his arms, not able to meet Potter's gaze. Vulnerability has never been his strong suit, and even after two weeks of learning how to be open with Luna the intimacy of Potter's eyes on his bare back and chest is not easy to accept. Scars, Draco feels, ought to be private things. Potter's scar—his infamous lightening scar that has taken on an angry red and spread farther down his face like a lightening strike slowed down—is proof that scars should be private. Potter's scar is too famous and it has never offered him a moment of peace; if anything, the scar has damned him. Draco thinks if Potter had been able to hide it maybe he could have hidden from the horror of the Dark Lord too. 

But then that isn't who Potter is. It is what makes them so different: Potter wears his scar publicly, a proud declaration of who he is and what he's overcome; Draco wears his privately, a shameful secret of who he is and what he's done. 

“I—I didn't know.” Potter's voice is choked, he is strangling on the words, on the admission of guilt. Draco doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to think about it, but Potter is coming closer, reaching a hand towards him and Draco is trapped. He presses himself further against the door, as though he might be able to melt into it and avoid Potter's touch. 

“I—” Draco wants to protest, wants to stop Potter in his tracks, but Potter doesn't seem to hear him. His eyes are intent, hypnotized by the scars on Draco's chest, and when his fingers touch the silvery line across his sternum Draco is too startled to say anything, to do anything. He sucks in a breath and stares down into Potter's startling eyes--eyes that have gone glassy and wide; that have become haunted, hunted. Potter's fingers are warm, but his gaze is filled with cold dread. Draco hates that he has no where to go, no way to avoid this moment and Potter's eyes and Potter's fingers tracing the scar as though they have ever touched one another in any way that wasn't hurtful. 

They have always hurt each other. Draco has always been nasty and cutting, and Potter has always been ready to parry his blows with ones of his own. Since that first day on the train, the only thing that has passed between them has been cruel and cold and cutting. There has never been any love between them, yet Potter touches his scars as though he cares, as though he wants to take it back, as if he could wipe the scar away. Draco's gaze falls to Potter's mouth, moving silently. He has spent years watching Potter, years honing the ability to read Potter's lips. Potter cannot put voice to the words, but Draco still hears them as though Potter has spoken them aloud. _I'm sorry._

This is all that he needs to force himself to move, to stop Potter's strangely intimate exploration of his scar. He brings up his hand, closing it around Potter's and stilling his fingers. 

“S-stop. It—it doesn't matter anymore.” 

Potter's eyes snap to his and there is a fire behind them. “Of course it matters,” he growls, as though Draco's statement is somehow a blow to him. “It fucking matters, Malfoy. I did this—I—fuck. I didn't want this, I never wanted this.” 

Draco thinks Potter is talking about more than the scars on his chest or back, but he doesn't say so. “I know, but I—I attacked you. What else were you supposed to do?” 

Potter's eyes are wide and he pulls at the hand Draco is still holding, the hand Draco suddenly doesn't want to let go. He tightens his grip and Potter's eyes narrow. “You—how can you defend what I did? It's—just because you attacked me doesn't mean I should have—I could have killed you—”

“Probably should have.” 

Potter freezes. Draco knows he has said the wrong thing, but he cannot take it back. He has often thought that perhaps he should have died that night, often wishes he had because it would have stopped so much suffering. 

Potter doesn't seem to agree. 

“Don't say that,” he breathes. He has stopped fighting against the hold Draco has on his hand, but his fingers curl against Draco's chest and around his thumb. “Don't ever—you can't just die, Malfoy. That doesn't solve anything.” 

Draco searches Potter's gaze. He is curious to know what Potter's line of thinking is, because he knows for a fact that if he had died things would be different. He knows things would be better. “You're daft,” he whispers. “People got hurt. I let Death Eaters into the school. Dumbledore—” He cannot finish that sentence. Thoughts of Dumbledore still hurt more than he knows how to cope with. 

“That doesn't matter,” Potter says and it is almost vicious. Draco's blood is pumping wildly, his heart is beating fast, and his skin tingles all over, burns where Potter's hand still rests. “You hurt people. So what? You're gonna take the easy way out? If you think that's better then you're wrong.” 

Draco is wrong. He has always been wrong, he just didn't always know it. “I don't think there's a way to fix the things I've done.” 

“Shut up,” Potter snaps and he somehow manages to get closer, right up in Draco's face. “There is! I'm going to stop him, and if you really want to make things right then do something! Stop fucking waffling about and make a damned choice. Choose to be good, Malfoy.”

Draco cannot breathe. He wants to laugh or cry—he isn't sure—but he knows that Potter is serious. Potter has always been earnest about his beliefs, and Draco knows that now he's shown an ounce of good Potter will not let up; Potter is like a malnourished dog with a bone. Potter is uncompromising and unwavering, his morals and his sense of right do not discriminate, and once he sets his mind to something he is hard-pressed to change his mind. Draco can be redeemed in Potter's world, but it is only in Potter's world, in those dark hours of the night and in the space between dreams. Reality is a much different, a much harsher place if only he could get Potter to see that. 

He swallows. “You make it sound so easy.” 

“It's not easy, it's never easy. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it.” 

Draco licks his lips. Potter's eyes snap to his mouth then back up to meet his gaze, the green of them molten like a magical fire burning into Draco. “I—I don't know if I can be good. I've never—I was raised to believe certain things, you know that better than almost anyone. It's not like I can just wake up and decide to turn over a new leaf. I've been this way my whole life.” 

Potter narrows his eyes, seems to remember that Draco is holding his hand and yanks his away, putting distance between them. Draco regrets the loss of contact immediately, but tries not to dwell on it. “So you're just going to be this way your whole life? You're just going to stay the same while the world changes around you? Gonna get married and have a kid that you teach all this shit to?” 

Draco snorts because the thought of living through the war is almost too much. He hadn't thought past the war, he hadn't thought that he might live to get married or have kids. Potter, however, clearly has. He wonders if Potter is already planning his wedding to Ginny Weasley and naming their litter of children. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Of course Potter gets to have his happily ever after—he knows Potter deserves it, but Draco is envious though he cannot fathom why because marriage and children are duties he has never been particularly excited about. 

“What's so funny?” 

“You are,” Draco says. “You say the most ridiculous things, but the worst part is you honestly believe it. You're so fucking noble and you think the rest of the world is too. Do you really think I'll survive this mess? I mean, if I stay here, I might but what about the aftermath? Do you think they won't just throw me in Azkaban with my father?” 

“I won't let them.” 

Draco boggles. “Merlin. You actually—you actually think that'll work! Merlin, Potter, I'd say you're full of yourself, but I know better. You really think they'll listen to you when you say it's not right. Not everyone's as idealistic as you are. The rest of them are going to want everyone with a Mark locked up for good, and nothing you say can change that.” 

“I'll make them listen,” Potter argues, lifting his chin and stepping back into Draco's personal space. “I'll tell them about that night when you let the Death Eater's in, I'll tell them you didn't have a choice.” 

“But I did have a choice!” Draco tries desperately. 

“What?” Potter laughs harshly. “Either kill Dumbledore or You-Know-Who will kill you? Some choice.” 

Draco wants to shake Potter, but he feels the fight go out of him. Potter is right; Draco's options had not been good and he doesn't have anything to counter this point. “You—you really believe in me, don't you?” 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice heavy with challenge. “I do.” 

The challenge in Potter's eyes is nothing like the challenges that Draco is used to from him. Usually, they are at odds, fighting for an opposing goal. That line is blurred now and, though Draco doesn't think he stands on the same side as Potter, he no longer stands opposite; instead he is standing in between, unsure and undecided, but already leaning towards the choice Potter thinks he will make. He is more sure of what he wants after their talk the night before, but he is unsure that he has the heart to see it through. The look in Potter's eyes challenges him to be steadfast and Draco sets his jaw, meeting Potter's gaze in acceptance of the challenge. Potter's anger melts replaced by another one of his tentative smiles that Draco holds on to. He hates Potter's smile, hates how much he doesn't hate it, hates how much it makes him feel like doing good and right just so he can see it directed at himself again.

Potter is going to be his undoing, he is sure of it. 

“You're going to be the death of me,” Draco says in resignation, but he is smiling. Potter's expression morphs, his smile melting away replaced by fear, but then he sees Draco's smile and it's gone. He laughs. Draco likes that sound more than he thinks he should. It sounds like the friendship he'd sought and been denied all those years ago. He doesn't think Potter is offering him that friendship yet, but he tentatively hopes that is where this is leading. 

“Stop complaining, Malfoy,” Potter says, his tone friendly and warm. “I think you'll like this side of the war a lot better.” 

“And who says I don't already?” 

Potter frowns. “Do you?” 

“I thought that was obvious,” Draco whispers as though he is telling Potter a carefully guarded secret. 

The tension between them has died now, and Potter seems to become aware of just how close they are standing. He blushes, stepping back and putting space between them, avoiding looking at Draco as though he is suddenly modest and hasn't spent six years sharing a dorm with four other boys. 

“I didn't realise you'd made your choice,” he says quietly. 

Draco moves into the room properly, watching as Potter continues to avoid looking at him. “I didn't realise either, but you're rather irksome when you're determined to save someone. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, you simply wore me out with all this harping on about it.” 

Potter snorts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I'm persistent.” 

“Don't I know it,” Draco says. He drops his clothes on his bed, frowning down at them. “Potter, are you any good at cleaning charms? It's just, Luna's done what she can with my clothes but she's not the best with them.” 

“Er, I'm all right, I suppose. I mean, we've been having to clean our clothes ourselves since—well since we've been away from school. I could always ask Hermione. She's better at it than I am, honestly.” 

“Colour me surprised,” Draco says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. He rolls his eyes at Potter, smiling to show he is teasing. “Granger better than you at something? I am shocked.” 

Potter catches Draco's eye and laughs. His cheeks are a warm pink from his blushing, but it is beginning to fade. Draco rather wishes it wouldn't. He wonders what he could do to bring that blush back to Potter's face, if it would be as easy as stepping into his personal space or more complicated. 

“I'll ask her, shall I?” 

“And what will I wear in the meantime?” Draco asks, raising his eyebrows. “I mean, I suppose I can confine myself to this room and sit here in a towel all day, but it is getting a bit chilly now that you're not invading my personal space.” 

Potter chokes. “Er... I'll uh...” He looks to the door. “I'll ask her now, then? So you can get dressed?” 

Draco grins. “Please, do. I'd hate to have to sit around naked for too long.” 

Potter nods mutely, the blush back in full force, making the faint brown of his skin look even warmer. Potter reaches the door, yanks it open, and is gone in a flash. 

Draco hums thoughtfully to himself as he lays his clothes out, fighting a losing battle against the smile that wants to take over his face. Eventually he gives up, accepts defeat, and allows himself to enjoy a moment of happiness. 

***

It isn't easy. It is, however, worth it. 

Weasley and Thomas are both angry to find Draco moving about the cottage both having been under the impression that Draco was not allowed to leave his room. Granger is unreadable, which is more unnerving than the outright hostility directed towards him by the former two. Draco doesn't know how to deal with Granger, but he takes the anger of Weasley and Thomas in stride; reminds himself that he brought this on himself when he wants to put up walls and be nasty; when the urge to lash out at Thomas with 'Mudblood' on the tip of his tongue is strong; when he wants to hurl insults at Weasley for his lack of wealth or call him a 'bloodtraitor'. He tells himself repeatedly that he was wrong, that he has to do better and be better, but a lifetime of indoctrination is not something easily unlearned. 

It is hard and he falters many times, but it is worth it when Luna and Potter smile at him, and when he sees Granger's gaze waver between closed off and unsure, to curious and hopeful. 

He avoids Bill Weasley because he is not ready to see the scars on his face that he knows are his fault as much as they are Greyback's. He has heard Fleur and Bill argue about his presence in the house on multiple occasions, and he knows that Fleur does not like him. Bill Weasley is undecided, but trusts Potter. In the end, they always agree that it is not safe for Draco to leave. 

He cannot decide if they mean it is not safe for them or safe for him, or perhaps they are thinking it is not safe for anyone. Maybe, despite how much Fleur hates him it is not enough to want him dead, which is strange because it's what he expects. He supposes it doesn't matter why they let him stay, just that they do. He has been shown more kindness in this house full of Mudbloods, blood-traitors, and unworthy creatures than he has ever been shown by the Dark Lord and his ilk. Even his own father has never been this kind to him. It is a startling revelation, but it is welcome when he is still so unsure of his place in all this; when he still doesn't know if this is a changing of allegiance or simply an act of cowardice. 

Potter takes it for the former because he has a good heart and is still so naive, Draco thinks, though not unkindly. He still doubts himself, still expects to betray Potter at the first sign of trouble, but the fact that he doesn't want to grounds him and he tries to push himself each day to prove to himself that he is capable of change. 

“You worry too much,” Luna tells him as they set the table for lunch. Thomas is sketching outside because he couldn't stand to be around Draco. Potter, Weasley, and Granger are locked away discussing secret plans that no one else can know about with the goblin. Fleur is finishing up lunch, in a bit of a snit because of Draco's presence. Bill has not come back from the other Weasley hide-away that Draco knows he visits from time to time. 

Draco glances up at Luna. “What are you on about?” 

“You're worrying,” she repeats. “You do it too much, you know. It's makes the others anxious.” 

Draco sighs. “I can't help it. I'm technically in enemy territory here.” 

Luna rolls her eyes. Draco always finds it odd when she does things like this—normal, ordinary displays of emotion on her seem out of place. Draco knows that he has her on a pedestal; that he sees her the way he might see the moon or the stars: a beautiful, untouchable, unearthly body beyond comprehension. It is incredibly silly, but Luna is an incredibly special person and he thinks it might be okay to see her this way only because she is so kind and so caring and because he thinks no one has ever treated her like this before. But he is often reminded that she is human in moments like this, when she rolls her eyes or huffs in exasperation, or the way she has to cast protective charms on her skin if she wants to spend time out doors. 

She had explained to him that while they were both equally pale, it was different for her because of her albinism. Draco still doesn't understand her condition fully, how she can be as Black as Granger, yet as pale as him. He tries not to stare because he knows it is rude, knows that people have stared all her life, but he tells Luna she is beautiful every time she catches his eyes on her. He tells her this because she is and because he cannot help staring at her when she has been so kind to someone so undeserving. He hopes she never doubts the sincerity in his words, because he has never had reason to be as sincere with anyone as he has now. 

“You're not an enemy, Draco,” she says. Her voice is light and airy, but the words are not. Every time she says this or Potter says something to the same effect, Draco is caught momentarily breathless. 

“No,” he agrees, “but I'm not one of you either.” 

“You could be,” she says. “Harry thinks so too.” 

Draco rolls his eyes, setting the last plate at the table. “Well, I always said he's not particularly bright.” 

“Brighter than you, I'd wager,” Potter says from the staircase. Granger and Weasley stand behind him, Weasley red in the face at the sight of Draco and Granger looking decidedly torn. 

“I do hope you're not betting a lot of money, Potter,” Draco drawls. “I would hate to see you down on your luck.” 

Potter snorts. “I'm touched by your concern.” 

“I am very altruistic,” Draco says sagely. Weasley snorts behind Potter. Draco chooses to ignore this, which he considers progress. Each day he gets better and better at this. 

“Is that why you saved Harry? Altruism?” It's the first time Granger has actively spoken to him, and it surprises nearly everyone present, Granger included. Draco doesn't know how to respond because the question is so much more loaded than he thinks she meant for it to be and because he still hasn't quite figured out the answer. He has never actually been selfless before, and he doesn't know if he would recognize that within himself now or not. It would be nice if he could believe himself capable of this, but he spends his days worrying—as Luna reminds him frequently not to—that his actions are manipulative and self-serving. 

“Malfoy didn't save me on purpose, Hermione,” Potter says, his tone light. “That was all a part of his evil plot. I told you.” 

Granger nods, her mouth pressed tight. Draco realises it's because she's trying not to smile. “Oh, right, how could I forget. Well, it's a very convincing plot.” 

“Draco's a good actor,” Luna pipes up as the door opens and Thomas accompanied by a man Draco hasn't met before enters. It must be Bill Weasley—he has the Weasley hair, but mostly Draco's eyes take in the scars on his face. He forgets to take part in the teasing banter that is strangely comforting because he cannot look away from Bill Weasley's scarred face. He feels sick to his stomach and he wants to run to his room to hide. 

Bill meets his gaze and nods. “Draco, glad to see you're moving about.” 

Draco swallows, but he has no idea what he is supposed to say. Bill Weasley is attractive, even with the scars—admittedly, Draco has always found scars attractive, even if he thinks they should be private things—and has a friendly sort of face, but it is hard to look at Bill and not think about Greyback's claw-like nails ripping at him and the sick way Greyback laughs. If he'd made different choices last year Bill might not have the scars at all. 

Fleur comes into the room with a bowl of salad, stepping up to kiss Bill on the cheek. She narrows her eyes at Draco. “Do you 'ave a problem with ze scars?” she asks. “You should. It iz your fault zat he 'as zem.” 

“Fleur,” Bill says tiredly.

“She's right,” Weasley interjects. 

“I'm well aware,” Bill snaps. “But as they're my scars and it's my house, I'd like you to keep your nose out of it.” 

“And mine?” Fleur asks archly. 

“Fleur, please, we've been over this—”

“I-I'm sorry.” His voice is soft and shaky, and they do not hear him. Draco doesn't like the fighting, doesn't like that it's his fault, and though it feels like choking the words come tumbling from him. 'Sorry' is an almost foreign word to him. There had been a time as a child when he had apologized for something he'd done to Dobby—he had been too young yet to have prejudice or know how to be intentionally cruel, and when he'd accidentally spilled hot tea on the elf he had been distraught. Lucius had reprimanded him for his remorse. 

“Never apologize, Draco,” Lucius had said coldly. “You are a Malfoy. You are never sorry for anything and you never debase yourself by apologizing to servants.” His father had kicked Dobby then, and instructed Draco to do the same. It had been his first lesson, at the bright age of four, in how to be cruel. He'd cried in his mother's lap when his father had gone away, but he had never let the words “I'm sorry” slip from him again. 

The universe has an odd sense of humor, he thinks, because he knows that “I'm sorry” will become his mantra, a healing salve on his life for many years if he becomes the person Potter thinks he can be and if he manages to survive the war. He will say it many times more, sometimes to the same people over and over, but he will say it and he will not shy away from it. 

“I'm sorry,” he says more firmly, a bit louder because Bill and Fleur had not heard the first time and their arguing hasn't subsided. The way it comes to him now is not exactly easy, but he feels more steady as he says it. 

The room falls into a tense silence. There are eyes on him, searching and shocked and, in the case of Potter and Luna, proud. Bill is the first to speak. 

“I don't need you're apologies, Draco. You're not the one who did this to me.” 

“He iz just as responsible,” Fleur says quietly, but her voice trembles on an unsure note. 

“No,” Bill says. “We've discussed this. Harry said he didn't have a choice—” Draco's gaze snaps to Potter, who is already looking at him, as though he'd expected to be met with Draco's scrutiny. They stare at one another, as Bill talks. Draco doesn't really hear what he's saying, but he knows it is something trite and full of understanding for a situation none of them had found themselves in, yet still somehow have sympathy for. 

“Zat iz not an excuse!” Fleur snaps. “He should 'ave gone to Dumbledore for help.” 

“He couldn't,” Potter interrupts. 

“'Arry, please. Why do you defend 'im?” 

“Because I was up on that tower, Fleur. I saw he didn't want to do any of it. He was just scared—”

“He is standing right here,” Draco snaps because he can't take being talked about as though he isn't in the room, and because Potter fighting his battles is disconcerting. He doesn't need Potter to be his white knight, he doesn't need or want Potter to save him from the choices he's already made. 

He also doesn't need anyone to make excuses for him. 

“I—I know what I did was...wrong,” he says, trying the word on for size. “I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I did what I did because of—because my family was in danger, but I know I hurt people and I can't change that—”

“You expect us to believe you're sorry?” Weasley asks, disbelieving.

“I don't. I don't expect anything. I just want to—I just want to do what I can to help.” 

“We don't need your help.” 

“Ron, stop,” Granger says. “He's trying.” 

“Yeah, well he's seven years too late.” 

“Better late than never,” Thomas says quietly. He is eyeing Draco warily, arms crossed over his chest as though to close himself off from the fighting around him. “I don't like you, but if you're trying to change then I'll give you a chance.”

Weasley looks betrayed, but the fight has gone out of him and he doesn't try to argue further. 

“Right,” Bill says into the ensuing silence, “I guess that's one way to break the ice. Can we eat now?” 

It doesn't ease the tension in the room, but it is enough to get everyone to sit down for lunch at the overcrowded table. Food floats into the room on platters, directed by Fleur, and everyone begins to make a plate. Luna disappears upstairs to inform Ollivander and the goblin that lunch is ready, returning with only Ollivander, who holds onto Luna as though without her he might crumple. 

Lunch is a largely quiet and tense affair. Draco sits between Potter and Luna, who seem to be acting as human shields, which he thinks helps the others more than it helps him. He tries to eat quickly so he has an excuse to get away from everyone, but he has always been a slow eater and his appetite is still in flux. He picks at his food and takes more time than he wants to take to finish. 

By the end of the meal, everyone is at least too full to be angry, and they clear the table without incident. Draco still feels Weasley's mistrusting gaze on him, but otherwise he cannot complain. 

If anything, he is glad for the confrontation. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and at least he has had the chance to put into practise this new found determination to be better. 

And it was worth it to have Potter smile at him again. 

He tries not to think about this need to have Potter smile at him as he returns to his room for a bit of peace and quiet.


	3. The Unexpected Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duality is not easy to navigate. He does not know if he is good or if forgiveness can be earned, and he fears that deep down he cannot change. Somehow, against all odds, some people believe in him...

It has been long enough now that Draco's back hurts less and he is able to move around the cottage for longer periods of time. He takes to offering to help with whatever he can—dishes, meals, laundry—it doesn't matter so long as he is being useful. There is always a moment of internal conflict right before he offers himself up for manual labor, a moment where his upbringing rears its ugly head and is so much stronger than he thinks he can cope with. His father's voice is loud in his mind, telling him he's weak to let these Mudbloods and blood-traitors change him; telling him that a Malfoy doesn't get his hands dirty, that this is work meant for house elves. 

But then Draco remembers Granger screaming and writhing in the drawing room; remembers Bill's scarred face; remembers the Dark Lord's laugh and it is all too easy, too necessary to quash his father's voice and say, “No. I'm better for this”. 

And he is. He knows he is because even Granger has stopped being so unsure, and Weasley might still hate him, but he no longer goes red in the face when Draco walks into a room or says something to Potter. Sometimes he can see Weasley brace himself for what Draco's going to say, and he thinks he knows what he's waiting for: slurs, insults, promises of revenge. These things never come, and the longer he goes without saying the word 'Mudblood' the more vile the word sounds to him. He still catches himself thinking it, still catches himself wanting to avoid Granger or Thomas touching him, but it is growing less and less frequent and he always feels sick with himself when it happens. He knows he is not good, but he is better. 

Potter tells him this often—not in words usually, but in the way he looks at Draco or the way he slips into Draco's room when he can't sleep just so they can talk. Draco senses that something is about to happen as Potter's visits become more frequent and the duration of them longer, but he is not sure what exactly is keeping Potter awake at night and he hasn't managed to ask him yet. A part of him wants to know because the ignorance scars him, but there is a part of him that wants to remain in the dark because then he cannot betray Potter.

Potter won't tell him, even if he asks, but sometimes Draco wants to because he wants Potter to trust him. He knows he wants this—maybe has always wanted it—because when Potter slips into his room in the middle of the night it feels like trust, and Draco longs for it each and every night. 

“You awake?” Potter asks when he slips into Draco's room for the third time in as many nights. Draco is always awake when Potter comes, but tonight it is not the anticipation of Potter's visit that has kept him awake. 

“Yes,” he says quietly, staring up at the ceiling of his borrowed room, what is technically his prison even though he has stopped thinking of it as such. “Unfortunately.” He adds this to be intentionally prickly because Potter seems to find it more amusing when Draco isn't forcing niceties. 

“I didn't wake you,” Potter says, asks. Most of the things that come out of Potter's mouth these days sound like statements, commands. Draco wonders if he knows how to ask questions anymore. 

“Potter,” Draco says with a sigh, “as much as I would love to blame you for this, tonight you only get half the credit.” 

“Who gets the other half?” 

“The Dark Lord, of course,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Also my back.” 

“I thought it was doing better.” Potter sits on the edge of Draco's bed, a bit tentatively. He sits here every night and is always tentative, but determined to claim this spot as though by doing so it will somehow bridge the gap between them. 

Draco shrugs. “It was, but bad dreams tend to make me tense. Ergo my back hurts.” 

Potter hums. “You really should have Hermione look at it.” 

“I don't want to waste her time with it. There's nothing she can do about it now anyway, the damage is done.” The truth of the matter is he simply cannot bring himself to ask Hermione Granger for any favors. It is not the thought of her touching him, but the idea of daring to ask her for anything at all. He has not earned the right to ask her for such kindness; he would rather suffer the pain. A secret part of him is punishing himself, believes he deserves the hurt and the constant reminder that his choices have consequences, even the good ones. Potter, sitting so close to him, is another reminder of this.

Potter shrugs. “If you're sure. Only, I know for a fact she'd be willing to help.” 

“And how do you know this?” 

“I asked her.” 

Draco rolls his eyes and huffs. “Of course you did.” 

“Why do you always sound so annoyed with me? I'm just trying to be helpful.” 

“Yes, Potter, and that is exactly my problem. I don't want you to be helpful. It's—it's weird. You don't have to be nice to me just because I was foolish enough to jump in front of a knife to save you.” 

“Maybe I'm being nice because I like you.” 

Draco snorts. “Very funny. We both know that's not true.” 

Potter shrugs. He shrugs a lot around Draco, as though he is always just a bit unsure of himself which doesn't seem to suit him now that he's the one thing standing between the Dark Lord and the world. “Well, maybe I want to like you. Maybe I think you're not so bad.” 

“Potter, do you ever stop being so fucking saintly? No, seriously,” he adds, when Potter's green eyes turn to him in narrowed annoyance. “I'm not taking the piss.” 

Potter laughs. “Merlin, Malfoy, I don't fucking—I'm just trying to do what's right, okay? I don't know what you even mean by that. _Saintly._ ” It comes out sarcastic, even a bit vicious, as though the word is a slur and has done Potter personal injury. Draco wonders why he hates it, why he hates being compared to goodness so pure it is holy. “It sure as hell wasn't saintly when I nearly ripped you open.” 

Draco's lip curls. “No, but what's a bit of blood between school rivals?” He is trying to make light of it because whenever Potter brings it up—and he does so often—things become tense and awkward. Potter, Draco knows, is still thinking about the scars that Draco had never wanted him to see; still blaming himself as though he has to carry this weight along with all the others he already carries.

“That wasn't a bit of blood, Malfoy.” Potter sounds angry, angrier. He should have realised his comment would upset Potter; Potter is so tetchy, so simultaneously self-righteous and self-loathing sometimes it makes Draco want to shake him. 

“I do know, Potter. I was there for the whole thing—well, only sort of. I was blissfully unconscious for quite a bit of it too. It was quite nice—”

“Malfoy,” Potter groans, or rather growls because the anger hasn't faded but now it sounds pained, forced, guilty. He rubs his temples, runs his hand through his hair which is messier from a failed attempt at sleeping. “For once could you just—not.” 

“Not what?” 

“Not pretend that it doesn't matter.” 

Draco looks away. He doesn't know how to do that because the last time things had been far too intense, too vulnerable and honest and real. Draco doesn't want to do that again, he wants to deflect. It is scary being that close to Potter, both physically and emotionally, and he doesn't think he is ready for more of that intimacy. They still aren't friends, though they are clearly trying to be something like friends, and Draco prefers to move slowly towards it whereas Potter, as with everything he does, seems keen to rush head first into it. 

“Can we just talk about something else? Why don't you ever bring up that time I broke your nose? I mean, since you seem so determined to talk about our violent and bloody history.” 

Potter shrugs. “Doesn't seem as important as almost killing someone.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. “You really are too fucking earnest, Potter.” 

Potter grins, and it's a bit cheeky. Draco likes when Potter gets cheeky, it's so much safer than when he wants to be honest and open; so much safer than when he wants to believe in Draco. “So I've been told.” 

They fall into comfortable silence—it immediately becomes uncomfortable for Draco once he realises how comfortable it is, just like it always does, and he searches for something to fill it with. 

“How's all that planning going?” he asks, even though he knows Potter can't tell him anything. “Is the goblin helping you lot with—whatever it is you're doing?” 

Potter looks at Draco askance, then looks away and shrugs again. “Can't really talk about it. It's—I wish I could sometimes, you know? With someone other than Ron and Hermione, but it's not safe. The more people who know the more dangerous it is.” He shrugs yet again, and it is so insufferable that Draco wants to both shake him and laugh. “But I think it's going as well as to be expected.” 

Draco nods. “That's good then.” 

“Yup.” 

Now it really is awkward. Draco fidgets with the blankets, fidgets with the long sleeves of the sleeping shirt he wears because even if no one were to see him he still can't stand the sight of the Dark Mark. It makes him feel hunted, as though the Dark Lord has eyes on him even in this place that's as safe as any right now. 

“Did it hurt?” Potter blurts out, his eyes on Draco's arm. Potter has a nasty habit of bringing up the worst things to discuss. Draco's hands fall still in his lap and he doesn't meet Potter's gaze. 

“What do you think?” 

Potter scoots up the bed, peering at Draco. His gaze is like Imperius, forcing Draco to look up. “That was a stupid question, wasn't it?” 

“I did say you weren't very bright.” 

“You say a lot of things about me, Malfoy.” 

“Well, you are very annoying so there is a lot to complain about.” His tone is far too fond for the words to be cutting, and Potter is smiling that strangely soft smile that he gets when he thinks he sees something in Draco that simply isn't there. Draco hates that Potter sees things in him this way. He should know better by now. 

“Annoying and not too bright, earnest and saintly. You know that's a lot of mixed signals.” 

Draco licks his lips. He isn't always sure how to respond to Potter's banter. In the past it had been easy to trade barb for barb, but now everything is delicate like egg shell, and Draco is never sure what will upset the balance they've carefully constructed between them. “I wouldn't want you to get complacent, Potter. Have to keep you guessing.” 

Potter leans back, looking away and the moment breaks like glass. Draco immediately wants it back, just like he always does. 

“I wish I'd never taken it,” he says and he hates the way his voice cracks. He pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to protect himself from what he's spoken aloud and what Potter will say. 

Potter's voice is so quiet it is less than a whisper. “I wish there was a way—can I see it?” 

Draco is so startled that he simply rolls up his sleeve and extends his arm to Potter. It is the last thing Potter should want to look at, but despite having spent six years in school together, Draco finds that Potter is still full of surprises. He had thought he knew Potter—in many ways he does because he did spend five years obsessing over Potter, and then a year avoiding Potter while he obsessed over Draco, and then the last nine months he'd gone back to obsessing over Potter some more, hoping to be saved—and yet he realises that Potter has depths he doesn't know about, and maybe his own image of Potter was colored by envy and bitterness and the sting of rejection. Draco is always proud of himself for these moments of clarity, for these moments when he doesn't see the world as black and white. He thinks if the rest of the world can be complicated, then maybe so can he; maybe he too can have hidden depths, maybe he doesn't have to be nasty and cruel for the rest of his life. 

Potter stares down at the Dark Mark, unflinching, his expression hard and determined. Draco can see that he hates it because Potter isn't trying to hide it. Potter hates the Dark Mark, hates what it stands for, hates that it's so close to him and in this place that should be safe. Draco knows all this because it is exactly how he feels about the Mark, and not because the anger is flashing like lightning behind Potter's eyes or the way his mouth has twisted in a way that isn't attractive at all, but still makes Draco want to sooth away the lines that have appeared. He doesn't know why he feels so softly about Potter when he spent so many years feeling hard and vicious things towards him. 

He thinks that nine months of imagining Potter as a savior is what's to blame. 

After a long moment of staring, Potter hisses and Draco is sent into a momentary panic. It is not a pleasant sound. It is the sound of Nagini as she prepares to devour the dead body of the Muggle Studies professor; it is the sound that the Dark Lord makes when he wants to threaten in ways that leave everyone guessing at the horrors to come; it is the sound of death and pain and Draco's heart is pounding, his blood is rushing in his ears, and he is dizzy, so dizzy, the room is so dark and it feels like his vision is tunneling and then—

The snake within the skull moves, undulates its body, blinks up at Potter, and then disappears within the skull. The mouth of the skull closes, and even though the eyes are hollow, Draco imagines they close too. Just like that his Dark Mark is dormant. 

The anxiety has not faded completely, but he is edging towards a place of calm as he stares down at what is now just a black skull. It does not look cool, it is not any less evil now that it looks just like an ordinary skull, but it is better than what it was. Draco realises he is holding his breath and lets it out. 

“H-how—?” His voice shakes so much he cannot get the words out. 

Potter reaches out to Draco, touching the skin around the Mark. He does not touch the Mark. He doesn't want to and Draco doesn't want him to, but he touches the delicate skin of Draco's forearm, far enough away from the black ink that he wouldn't accidentally brush against it if either of them were jostled. After a long moment, Potter reaches up and pulls the sleeve of his shirt back down, covering the Mark. 

It is strangely final, as though with this gesture Potter has declared that this part of Draco is gone, as though he is saying, “Enough. Let's move forward.” 

“I didn't know if that would work,” Potter finally says. His fingers are still touching Draco's skin, just the tips brushing his wrist, but it is enough to make the skin there tingle. 

“W-what did you say?” 

“I told it to go to sleep.” 

Draco balks. “That's it?” 

Potter shrugs. “Yup.” 

Draco shakes his head. “You're—”

“Impossible?” Potter is smiling at him, but it is tinged with sadness. “So I've been told.” 

He rises to his feet and Draco sees that Potter looks exhausted. It is not something sudden, it has not only just overwhelmed Potter now in this moment; Draco knows—realises—that it has been there this entire time, it has just taken him this long to see how tired Potter is because he has been wrapped up with his own conflicted heart and his own imagination of what Potter is. Now that he is looking, it is as plain as day that the war is taking everything out of him. Somehow, though, he carries on; carries on believing that this will all be worth it; that he can stop all the pain and death; that people deserve second chances; that the world can change. He must be so tired, Draco thinks as he watches him. So fucking tired. 

“Good night, Malfoy.” 

“Thank you,” is all Draco can say before Potter is gone, closing the door behind him. 

***

Ollivander is leaving. It is a relief to have one less person in the house who was once a prisoner in Draco's own home. He has not seen much of Ollivander, but whenever he does—on those occasions when he brings him a meal or Luna manages to coax him downstairs for one—it has left him unnerved. Ollivander always seems to view everyone as a specimen, as an extension of their wand instead of as a person. 

For instance: Draco is ten inches of reasonably springy hawthorn surrounding unicorn hair. He is not Draco Malfoy, son of Lucious Malfoy and Narcissa Black; he is not an elite pureblood or a would-be Death Eater. He is the wand that had chosen him. His name is just a way for Ollivander to distinguish him from the other unicorn hair and hawthorn wands. 

So whenever Ollivander looks at him, it feels as though he is staring into Draco's soul, peeling back the layers that protect him from the world, and ripping the truth from him. If Luna is an Empath, Ollivander is one too, but he finds the truth of a person the way a Dementor kisses. It is agony to be in Ollivander's presence because Draco knows that his wand says so much about him, so much that he doesn't even know and Ollivander understands it all. Ollivander knows Draco better than he knows himself, and no amount of posturing will change that.

Draco wonders if Ollivander has warned Potter that Draco will eventually betray him. 

He doesn't ask as everyone says their goodbyes. 

Luna is the only one who seems a kindred spirit to Ollivander and doesn't fidget under his gaze. Even Potter seems to find the wandmaker uncomfortable to be around. 

Draco thinks he will be able to get away with a simple parting nod, but when Ollivander has said his goodbyes to everyone else he gazes steadily at Draco, and again it feels as though his soul is being stripped to its unicorn hair core. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Ollivander says. His voice is as quiet as he is frail and his tone just as knowing. Draco cannot meet his eyes. “I expect you will surprise us all in the end, even yourself.” 

He doesn't know what to say to this, so he just shrugs—he blames Potter for this unrefined gesture, but he cannot stop himself. It is all he has to answer with. Ollivander smiles, knowing and secretive, and still Draco cannot meet his gaze. 

“Good bye, Draco Malfoy. And good luck.” 

Draco doesn't think he wants Ollivander to wish him luck. He doesn't think anyone should be wishing someone with a Dark Mark luck, but he doesn't point this out. Ollivander leaves and Draco is left wondering. 

*** 

Time drags as they wait for Bill to return from his errand. 

Bill has left the cottage a handful of times since his arrival—to get supplies to feed so many mouths, to organize Ollivander's stay with the other Weasleys—and every time he leaves unease settles over the cottage. Fleur in particular becomes more subdued, more fragile. Draco tries to make himself scarce because he knows his presence upsets her, and so he takes his dinner in his room. It is odd how lonely it feels to eat by himself now that he is used to once again eating with so many around him. He tries not to think about the fact that he has grown used to the presence of people he once hated, tries not to think too hard about what it might be like once the war is over and these people no longer hold him prisoner. 

His thoughts are interrupted briefly when he hears Bill return. He doesn't realise until that moment that he was worried too. Worried about a Weasley, he thinks dryly. It is almost amusing. 

The amusement is chased away quickly by a banging at the door of the cottage. He is immediately sent into a panic, his mind spinning out of control to dark places. The Dark Lord has come for them, Potter is about to die, they are all about to die, Draco didn't save him at all, it is somehow his fault, somehow his doing, somehow— 

“It is I, Remus John Lupin!” The voice carries, just barely, over the howling of the wind. 

He is frozen to his bed, unable to move and wide-eyed with fear, no less tense for the fact that they are not in danger, but he berates himself for thinking the Dark Lord would bother with knocking. He forces himself to calm down as much as he can, then pushes himself off the bed, abandoning his untouched food. 

The floor creaks beneath his feet as he makes his way downstairs. He listens intently to the voices, to their tone, dreading the worst news he can imagine knowing Potter is there, safe and sound. 

“It's a boy!” He hears Lupin shout; jubilant, exhausted, relieved. Then Lupin says something quieter. Draco reaches the ground floor and sees his old professor, looking grayer than the last time he'd seen him, but happy. Happiness during war time seems like such a strange and alien thing, but Draco watches his expression, looks to the other faces in the room, and thinks maybe it is less strange and more like a miracle. 

“Yes—yes—a boy,” Lupin says, and then he is hugging Potter tightly and asking, “You'll be godfather?” 

“M-me?” 

“You, yes of course—Dora quite agrees, no one better—”

Potter is saying yes when Lupin's eyes finally catch sight of Draco, standing apart from everyone, looking so out of place. 

“What's he doing here?” Lupin asks. The words are not angry, only curious and confused, but Draco feels as though Lupin has just shouted at him. 

“I—”

“He saved us.” Potter's tone leaves no room for argument. He stares into Lupin's face, the ease and joy of the moment replaced by command and, Draco thinks a bit dazedly, protectiveness. “We got caught by Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor—”

“Merlin, Harry—”

“We're fine,” Potter says, and his tone is a bit lighter now that he sees Lupin isn't jumping to attack Draco. “We made it out. Draco refused to identify me—Hermione'd used a Stinging Jinx so they couldn't recognize me, but they tried to make him ID me. He refused.” 

Weasley snorts and earns a quick elbow to the ribs from Granger. Potter ignores him. 

“We almost didn't make it out in time,” Potter continues. “Dobby helped us, but as I was Apparating from the Manor Bellatrix threw a knife. If Draco hadn't jumped in front of it, I'd probably be dead.” 

Draco doesn't think he deserves this much credit, but there is a part of him that preens at the praise. He is staring down at his shoes, trying to hide the way his cheeks have gone pink and the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

“That—really? Jumped in front of the knife? My goodness, Draco.” Lupin sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, as though this story of Draco's unexpected heroism has touched him. “That was quite brave.” 

Draco doesn't like that word. He is not brave, he has never been brave, and he doesn't want anyone else to think he is now. He doesn't want them to start expecting bravery and acts of heroism from him just because of one brief lapse. 

“It wasn't,” he says quietly. “I wasn't even thinking. I just—it just happened.” 

Lupin nods. “Doesn't make it less brave,” he tells him. Draco doesn't want to argue because then he'd have to admit to all the conflicting feelings he is still struggling with, all the doubts and fears. “I think I speak for everyone when I say thank you.” 

Weasley looks pained at this, but he is the only one. Draco tries not to let this gratitude affect him, but he knows he can't help it. It is overwhelming to be praised for something he hadn't meant to do, something that he could have easily not done at all. He doesn't say anything. 

“I really should be going back,” Lupin says, but before he goes, he looks back to Draco. “I had come by to tell everyone—well, obviously you heard that my son was just born, but well, you might like to know he's your cousin. Second, I believe.” Lupin looks hopeful. Draco doesn't know why he should be, but he allows himself a smile. It seems to be the right choice because Lupin smiles back. “You'll have to meet him sometime. After all this, of course.” 

Draco did not expect this, but he is warmed by the thought. Family has always been important to him, and Draco likes the idea that he has familial ties that are unconnected to the blood supremacy and Dark art fanaticism of the Malfoys. 

“I'd like that,” he says, and means it. He regrets it almost immediately when he realises that this is a promise he will most likely break. Even if he survives the war, he knows by the end this group of people he has grown distantly fond of will no longer want anything to do with him. It is just another future disappoint for himself, and now for Lupin too. 

“Well, I really should be going.” 

“Wait, just a moment,” Bill says, grabbing wine and filling goblets. He passes them around to everyone, including Draco. “We ought to celebrate, just for a bit.” 

He doesn't want to be a part of this celebration, but he can see no way out of it. The goblin seems just as reluctant, but Draco doubts it is for the same reasons. He sips at his wine as they toast to Teddy Lupin, his second cousin, born in the midst of war on a windy April night; he tries to stick to the outside of the circle as they talk and laugh and allow themselves this moment of joy. Luna takes up a place next to him, not trying to include him in conversation, but offering silent support. He appreciates her all over again, using her presence to ground him. 

Draco makes the horrible mistake of looking at Potter as he talks with Lupin. For a moment, the weight of the world is no longer resting solely on his shoulders and Draco sees him as he should have been, without death and scars and Dark Lords. He sees him as Harry, and his heart breaks. 

This was a terrible idea. He never should have saved Harry Potter, he never should have talked to Potter or let him touch his scars or allowed Potter to believe in him, because now Draco is in too deep. Now he understands why he must have felt the need to jump in front of that knife. 

He wants to run to his room and hide, he wants to never come out, even when the war is over. He doesn't want to face this strange new friendship, he doesn't want to face the choices he's going to have to make. He doesn't want any of this, but the moment continues: the joy, the laughter, the love in this room, and the fact that he is not only given the opportunity to witness it, but is a part of it; and he knows without a doubt that he is going to die because he has stupidly, foolishly fallen in love with this cottage and these people and this moment. 

Harry Potter is going to be the death of him, and he knows there is nothing he can do about it. 

***

Draco receives a letter, accompanied by a long, thin package. Luna bursts into his room, her hair in a tangle of half undone braids, clutching a similar looking package. 

“Did you—oh! You did!” Luna says breathless with glee. She jumps onto his bed, more awake than Draco is at this hour. “Well, aren't you going to open it?” 

Draco's fingers shake as he opens the package. A wand rolls out onto his bed. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, except for perhaps Potter's eyes and his Hogwarts' letter. Draco holds his breath, afraid to touch it and mar it with fingerprints; afraid for it to be attached to someone with the Dark Mark; afraid that he might not feel the warmth of his magic accepted by this wand. 

“Oh, it's beautiful,” Luna breathes. 

Draco doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He doesn't understand why Ollivander sent him this wand when he had been held prisoner in Draco's home for nearly two full years. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, his stomach feels like lead, and he cannot stop the shaking of his hands. 

“Aren't you going to try a spell?” Luna asks him curiously, tilting her head and reminding him of an appraising owl. 

“I—what if it doesn't work?” he asks. He is only faintly surprised that he put voice to his concerns. 

“It will work,” she says, and she sounds as sure as anyone can who's voice is as dreamy as hers always is. 

Draco's fingers continue to shake as he picks up the wand. The wood is soft and warms at his touch; it is a darker, almost peach-like colour at the handle, fading to a faint nearly white shade at the tip. It is a smooth, thin wand, with the most subtle of handles that is exactly the right size for Draco's hand. It feels right when he holds it and his hand stops shaking as the feel of his magic connects with the wand. He doesn't need to cast to know that this wand was made for him, just for him. 

He is no longer ten inches of reasonably springy hawthorn encasing unicorn hair, and Draco sighs with relief. He doesn't know why this is important to him, but it is. 

Luna is smiling at him as though she has just watched him do something incredible, something greater than simply picking up a wand. She looks at him like she sees something in him, the way Potter does, and he begins to wonder if maybe it's time he look for that something in himself. He stares down at the wand, gripping it a bit tighter before closing his eyes and thinking of what spell he wants to use first. 

He wants it to be something good, something soft, something that cannot be mistaken for Dark magic. He wants the first spell his wand uses to bring happiness. 

_Flore,_ he thinks as he remembers the gardens at the Manor, remembers the smell of spring and summer, remembers the picturesque colours against the backdrop of the sky. It is such a simple spell, but he knows exactly what he wants from it and he feels the magic thrum through him; feels the life that flows from the tip of his wand as though it is a part of him. 

“They're lovely,” Luna whispers. Draco opens his eyes to see the flowers that have fallen from his wand into his lap. He is covered in bright yellow daffodils and soft purple Canterbury bells, neither of which had ever filled the gardens of the Manor. His mother is particular about what flowers and plants and herbs she allows in the gardens, but Draco is well versed in flora and fauna, having spent a great deal of time learning about them for the sake of potion making. 

He smiles down at the flowers, picking up a single daffodil. 

“Draco,” Luna says softly, and she is reaching out, touching his face to wipe away tears. 

He doesn't know exactly when he started to cry, but he is not a fool. He knows why he is crying and he does not shy away from it, nor does he try to hide his tears from Luna. It is strange to feel so at ease with someone else witness to him in such a tender moment, but he is glad it is Luna. She reminds him of the flowers he has conjured, and he picks more up, handing her a small bouquet. 

“Here,” he says. 

She accepts them with a smile. “You're very talented.” 

He shakes his head. “I'm nothing special.” 

“Oh, but you are,” she says seriously. She is looking at him so steadily that it is unnerving for how unlike herself she looks. It is as though she is suddenly tethered to the earth and all the awareness of everything in the world rests in her gaze. 

“I don't know what you think you see in me,” he says softly. He stares down at the remaining flowers in his lap, grips his wand tighter, and tries to believe. “I want to see it, you know? What you and Potter see in me. I want to see it, too.” 

Luna reaches out, resting her hand on his, the same hand that holds his new wand, and he feels the caress of her magic against his hand, as though his wand accepts her as much as it accepts him. “You will,” she promises, and then she is floating away again, no longer grounded now that she has reassured him. “I'm off to breakfast. Will you come with me?” 

“I'll be there in a minute,” he tells her. 

Once she has left him, taking her flowers with her, he opens the letter that Ollivander has sent with his wand. 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_You are wondering, of course, why I would send you this gift. Unlike Luna's wand, it is not in thanks that I send this, but do not misunderstand: I was never your prisoner, Mr. Malfoy. The Dark Lord's, yes; your father's, yes. But never yours. However, this wand is not given in thanks of saving my life for you did no such thing._

_But you did save Harry Potter, and in so doing saved us all. It struck me as strange when I stopped to think of the nature of hawthorn. It has been a long time since you were that boy looking for your first wand, Mr. Malfoy. A long time, indeed. For some, wands are life long companions; for others, we grow out of one and must be matched to another. It is the nature, not of wands but of wizards, for we are always changing._

_Change, Mr. Malfoy, is not easy but it is inevitable._

_And with that change in mind, I have created for you a wand of fir, and much like your previous wand, it too contains a unicorn hair core. I do believe, Mr. Malfoy, that there is something to be said for the unicorn hair in your wand. (Luna's wand shares your core; I wonder what you will take from that.) Note that your last wand was ten inches, while this wand is a solid eleven—that too is important for growth should never be ignored—and finally, consider that this wand is more flexible than your last._

_You are not a wandmaker, Mr. Malfoy, and so I do not expect you to understand why I crafted your wand in such a fashion, but I do hope that this wand guides you, for I trust you will need guidance in the months to come. Trust this wand, Mr. Malfoy, and perhaps you will learn to trust yourself._

_Sincerely,  
Garrick Ollivander_

***

“We're leaving,” Potter tells him without preamble. 

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Well, I do wish you'd said something sooner. I haven't even packed.” 

Potter shakes his head. “No, I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Draco snaps, trying to ignore the way his heart feels tight in his chest. “Your plan is all ready to be set into motion, I take it?”

Potter doesn't respond, which is answer enough. 

“Will you be coming back?” Draco finally asks. 

“No. But I've talked to Bill and he says you can stay.” 

Draco nods. “I had wondered—will you keep in contact with Bill?” 

“Can't.” 

“Of course not. Silly me.” 

Potter hesitates. “Listen, Malfoy, I—this is going to sound awful, I just—I don't know how to say this.” 

“Say it, Potter. I promise you that whatever it is, I can handle it. I'm not exactly delicate.” 

“No,” Potter agrees, the word heavy with meaning. “But I—look, I like how things have been...between us. I like not fighting, not hating you.” 

“Mutual,” Draco says, more curt than he means to be. His walls are going up faster than he can tear them down. He knows this is not going to be an easy conversation, knows Potter is going to say something hurtful and he needs to prepare, but he has only ever known how to be prickly and defensive when hurt. His walls are covered in thorns and Potter will end up cut if he isn't careful. 

“But I—I don't know if I really trust you yet.” 

And there it is. For all of Potter's hesitation, for all that he clearly is not saying this to hurt him, it still does. Draco tries not to lash out, tries not to prove that Potter shouldn't trust him, but it is a difficult thing. The thorns are as big as the bricks used to build his walls and they cut even Draco. 

“Why ever would you?” he asks coldly. He sneers. He hates himself. 

Potter looks upset, pained, frustrated. He looks just as tired as he has looked for days, weeks, probably months. Draco's heart aches and the thorns dig in. He wishes he wasn't like this, he wishes he could just be constant and sure, wishes he could be soft and vulnerable. He is so scared, and more than anything else, he is scared of Potter leaving and never coming back. 

“I—right,” Potter finally manages. “I guess—I mean, I just thought—”

“Don't waste your breath,” Draco interrupts. “We're not friends, Potter. You're not going to miss me, are you?” He scoffs, as though this thought doesn't bother him. He will miss Potter— _has_ missed Potter. The past nine months have seen Draco desperately missing Potter's presence, Potter's reckless heroics, Potter's stupid green eyes and his ridiculous scar that has only become more ridiculous since the last time Draco saw him. Potter probably never thought about him once. 

“Merlin, you're an arse. I don't know why I'm even trying,” Potter says, his voice a whine of frustration. “I should have just left and not even said anything, but I thought you'd be upset—”

“Why would I be upset? I don't like you, Potter.” He is a good liar, especially when he is angry; especially when he wants to protect himself; especially when he wants to hurt someone because they've hurt him. The thorns turn against Potter now. 

Potter bares his teeth. “Fine, Malfoy. Just—fine. Never-fucking-mind, then.” 

He storms out of Draco's room, slamming the door behind him. Draco winces, nervous that it might wake the rest of the house. He waits in vain for Potter to come back so he can apologize even though it feels like the thorns are growing inside him, filling his throat until it is too raw and bloody to speak. Draco is too weak to break down his walls and admit his feelings; to weak to tear through the bramble and go after Potter. He sighs, settling back into his bed and tries not to let the fear overtake him. Potter is leaving, but that doesn't mean he's going off to die. 

It just means he's going off to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going on hiatus with this piece until after the GaaLee Summer Fest is over! I'll be back to working on this in September! 
> 
> Also, for those curious this is Pottermore's notes on fir wand wood: "Fir My august grandfather, Gerbold Octavius Ollivander, always called wands of this wood ‘the survivor’s wand,’ because he had sold it to three wizards who subsequently passed through mortal peril unscathed. There is no doubt that this wood, coming as it does from the most resilient of trees, produces wands that demand staying power and strength of purpose in their true owners, and that they are poor tools in the hands of the changeable and indecisive. Fir wands are particularly suited to Transfiguration, and favour owners of focused, strong-minded and, occasionally, intimidating demeanour."
> 
> as compared to the piece on hawthorn: "The wandmaker Gregorovitch wrote that hawthorn ‘makes a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.’ While I disagree with many of Gregorovitch’s conclusions, we concur about hawthorn wands, which are complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suit them. Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and I have generally observed that the hawthorn wand seems most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a witch or wizard passing through a period of turmoil. Hawthorn is not easy to master, however, and I would only ever consider placing a hawthorn wand in the hands of a witch or wizard of proven talent, or the consequences might be dangerous. Hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity: their spells can, when badly handled, backfire."


	4. A Foolish Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is fighting two wars--one within and one without. Everything is at stake and he isn't sure if he'll win either wars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled quite a bit with this chapter, so it's been sitting for a few months. I finally managed to focus on fixing what I wasn't liking about it though and finished this chapter! Of course, all while I'm super behind on my GaaLee fest fic >< I'm terrible at focusing, istg. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! I received some really amazing comments on the last one that really inspired me to come back to this fic when I couldn't focus on my other works.

Potter isn't there when he wakes. 

He tries not to be disappointed, but it is a losing battle. He takes his breakfast upstairs, avoiding everyone left in the cottage. He is grateful that since no one but Luna likes him no one minds his absence. Unfortunately, because he has exiled himself to his room, he is also bored and left with nothing but Potter to think about. 

Potter and his dangerous mission. 

He has no clue what Potter has gone to do, why Potter has spent weeks speaking with a goblin, why Potter needs to carry a sword, or anything else. All he knows is it's dangerous and Draco might never see him again. After everything that has happened between them, regret settles heavily in the pit of his stomach. He does not think they were friends, but something had formed between them, something fragile and precious, and he is sure he has broken it completely. 

He tells himself it is for the best, that he will betray Potter if given the chance, and then he is too restless to sit still any longer. He grabs his wand and goes to find Luna, because if anyone can sooth his frantic mind it's her. She is outside with Thomas, who is watching her cast spells on nearby seashells that make them sing. Draco stops to watch her, to listen to the seashells' song. It is a beautiful song, full of hope and wonder, just like Luna. 

“Hullo, Draco,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder. 

“Hello,” he replies quietly. He kicks at a pebble, avoiding Thomas' gaze. 

“Don't worry, Draco,” Luna offers even though he has not said much at all to her today. “Come help me.” 

“What are you doing?” he asks. Thomas eyes Draco, shifting away so he can stand on the other side of Luna. Draco tries not to let this bother him. He and Thomas get on better than he and Weasley do—or at least Thomas tolerates his presence better, which while only a small victory is a victory nonetheless, and Draco will take what he can get. 

“I wanted to listen to the seashell's tell stories.” 

Draco glances down at the singing shells. The voice Luna has given them is beautiful and inhuman, but there are no words, just notes and warbling and something like the sound of the ocean rolling beneath. If this is a story, Draco doesn't know what it's about; Luna is probably the only one who really understands. “And how do you do that?” 

Luna smiles. “It's simple, really. You just have to give them a voice.” 

Draco doesn't know how to give seashells a voice, but he indulges Luna. “It looks like you're doing a good enough job without me.” 

“Oh, but they might tell you a different story,” Luna says. “They don't tell the same story to everyone.”

“Seashells have a lot of stories, then?” he asks, amused. Thomas snorts, but quickly covers it with a cough. 

“Of course they do. They've been to so many places, you know.” 

“I hadn't thought of that,” Draco says, and now Thomas is sharing a look with him, sharing his amusement and fondness for Luna with Draco. It is another small victory. “Well, I guess I'll try.” 

Luna ends her spell on the seashells, then glances at Draco expectantly. 

He hesitates, waiting for instructions that do not come. “I don't know how to do this. You'll need to show me.” 

“Oh!” Luna claps her hands together. “Like this.” She flicks her wand like a conductor and less like a witch, moving it before the shells and saying, almost as though she too is singing, _”Cantabo.”_

The shells immediately begin to sing, soft and sweet. Draco closes his eyes, listening, trying to imagine what they are singing about. 

“Now you,” Luna tells him, and the music stops. 

Draco takes in a deep breath and does as Luna has shown him. Nothing happens. He frowns, focusing on what it is he wants as he carefully waves his wand through the air. _“Cantabo.”_

One shell sings a sad, warbling note before going silent. 

Draco tries again. 

And again. 

Nothing happens. 

Luna and Thomas are watching him as his frustration mounts. He wants to kick the shells or blast them away, he doesn't know which would be more satisfying. He tries, one last time, and when nothing happens he has to fight against the urge to swear. He flicks his wand angrily, trying to silently vanish them. They do not so much as move. 

“Draco,” Luna says, reaching for his shaking hand. 

“What?” he snaps, hating himself the moment he has done so. “I'm sorry.” 

Luna shakes her head. “You really shouldn't worry so much,” she tells him, and he thinks he has never heard her sound quite so sad. 

“I don't—I'm not worried,” he says, but it sounds like a lie. He is worried. He is scared. It is overwhelming. But he should still be able to cast, and now that he cannot he is confused and frustrated on top of everything else.

Luna is staring at him like she knows all of this and more, and he cannot take it. He takes a step back, turns and runs back inside. Luna calls for him, but he ignores her, running back to the room that feels something like home, where he can be safe for just a moment. 

***

His wand is still not working for him when Luna comes to his room hours later. He is in the middle of inspecting it, turning it over and over in his hands, trying not to think about anything but making his wand work for him again. 

“Fleur's almost done with dinner,” Luna says when she enters. “Are you going to hide up here for it? Or will you come downstairs?” 

“My wand still won't work,” he says sullenly instead of answering her question. 

“I told you,” Luna says, almost sounding annoyed, but not quite, “you worry too much.” 

Draco snorts. “I think it's pretty reasonable to worry that my wand isn't working.” 

Luna shakes her head. “You never do listen. It's really no wonder you and Harry didn't get along for all those years.” 

Draco bristles, but bites down on the retort already on the tip of his tongue. He knows why Potter was never his friend. It has taken him years to understand and accept this, but he does now even as he struggles with making things right. It was always because of Draco. He knows this and reminds himself of this daily, yet he stills falls into old habits far too often. He swallows down the anger, and finally looks away from his wand. 

“Do you want to explain what you mean, then? By not worrying?” 

Luna hums. “Oh, Draco,” she says on a sigh, her voice so sad that it hurts to hear it. “It's all about what's in your heart. I'm sure you'll sort it out.” 

He sighs, standing and pocketing his wand. “You're an enigma, Luna Lovegood. Do you know that?” 

Luna smiles. “That's very sweet of you to say.” 

Draco isn't sure he'll ever understand Luna, but he smiles. “So, dinner's being made?” 

“Are you joining us?” 

“I guess I am,” he tells her. If worrying is why his wand isn't working, then the best course of action is to distract himself. 

Luna leads the way downstairs, chatting distractedly about what's for dinner. Draco listens with half an ear, looking down the hall to the room Potter had holed himself up in for most of his stay. Even though Potter had spent all of his time cooped up with the goblin and his closest friends, Draco feels their absence keenly. The cottage feels too big now, not empty, but not as full as it should. Draco misses seeing the dinner table crowded to max capacity when he enters the sitting room to find only Thomas and Bill. Fleur enters just as Luna and Draco take their seats. The food smells delicious as it always does, but Draco is not particularly hungry. His thoughts are far away and his stomach is full of apprehension. There is no room for food. 

Plates are filled and everyone is only just tucking in when Luna let's out a soft gasp, jumping to her feet. Everyone stares at her as she pulls from her pocket a galleon. Her eyes are wider than usual as she holds it in her hand.

“Harry's at Hogwarts,” she says breathlessly.

Silence meets this declaration. 

Then Bill is pushing his chair out suddenly and Fleur follows suit. Thomas is staring dumbfounded, but slowly a smile is spreading across his face. He lets out a whoop of excitement and jumps to his feet. 

“We'd better go then, yeah?” 

“Wait a minute,” Bill says, “you can't just—what the hell is Harry doing there?” 

“He's gotta be there to stop the Carrows and Snape,” Thomas supplies. “Right, Luna? What'd Neville say?” 

“He wants us back there,” Luna says, pocketing the galleon. “We really ought to get going, hadn't we?” 

“I can't just let you leave,” Bill says. 

“Well, aren't you coming too?” Luna asks. “I imagine there will be lots of fighting. You-Know-Who may even show up. I mean, if Harry's there he'll certainly do, won't he, Draco?” 

Draco nods mutely, the only one still sitting. Fear paralyzes him, trepidation overwhelms him, that feeling in his stomach has turned to lead and it keeps him rooted to his chair. Is this it? Is this the moment when he will finally betray Potter? 

Bill sighs heavily. “Fine. You kids—just be safe, okay. We'll follow you as soon as we've rounded up as much of the Order as we can.” 

“I bet Ginny's already gotten the message,” Luna says. She looks electric, and it strikes Draco that she is ready for this battle. She has never struck him as a fighter; everything about her is soft and soothing, like a healer; knowing and strange like a philosopher, but she is standing before them, the youngest one present, completely unafraid of the battle ahead. 

“Draco,” she says, “aren't you coming?” 

Draco's eyes go wide. “Me? But—they won't want me there. I'm—my family—”

“You saved Harry,” Luna says as if this is enough to erase his past sins. It isn't, one choice is not enough to erase years of wrong-doing, it is not enough to foster trust or earn forgiveness. “I'm sure people will give you a chance.” 

Thomas is eyeing him behind Luna, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Draco cannot decipher what he is thinking. 

“You should go,” Bill says. “You've done nothing but help us since you got here. And Harry trusts you.” 

Draco swallows and doesn't say _That's what I'm afraid of._

“Well?” Luna asks, and when he remains silent adds, “I know you can do this, Draco.” 

Shakily, Draco pushes himself to his feet. “My wand isn't working,” he says quietly, as though this will get him out of having to go and fight when he knows he can't back out. He's already joining Luna and Thomas at the door, already steeling himself for the moment when he will face down Death Eaters, his own family and friends. He is not ready to be a hero, and he doesn't think he ever will be. 

“I don't even have a wand,” Thomas says, and he sounds a bit bitter. “Still can't understand why Ollivander sent _you_ one and not me.” 

“Me neither,” Draco admits. It makes Thomas smile a bit lopsidedly at him. He smiles back nervously.

“All right, then,” Luna declares. “Shall we? Draco you ought to side-along with Dean.” 

“Where are we going?” he asks, pulling out his wand and hoping it works. 

“The Hog's Head,” Luna says beaming. “You know it, don't you?” 

Draco nods. Luna is gone with a pop, leaving Draco and Thomas staring uncomfortably at one another. Finally, Draco extends his arm. “Shall we?” 

Thomas shrugs, shaking his head. “This is the strangest thing I think that's ever happened to me.” 

“I'd have to agree,” Draco says as Thomas slips his arm through Draco's. He glances back at Bill and Fluer, nodding. “Thank you. For everything.” 

“Be safe,” Fleur says in a quaking voice. “I—thank you for helping and for—for 'arry.” 

Draco nods. 

“We'll see you soon,” Bill says. “Now go.” 

Draco spins, Thomas following him as though they are caught up in an unexpected waltz together. There is a moment when Draco is sure his wand won't work, but then he feels the tug and they are being pulled through space. The world spins around them, but Draco does not see stars in Thomas' eyes and he does not feel the bite of a knife at his back or the shredding of Splinching. Everything is tight and he is terrified, and then they are standing in the Hog's Head. 

“You're just in time,” an unfamiliar voice says. Draco turns and his heart nearly stops. For a moment, he thinks he is staring at Albus Dumbledore, but then his brain catches up with his eyes and he registers the differences in this man's appearance. 

“You're the Malfoy boy,” the man says. 

“I—”

“Didn't think I'd be seeing you. Is this some kind of joke?” He is talking to Thomas now. 

“Nope. Malfoy here saved Harry back at the Manor.” 

The man's eyes narrow. “Dobby mentioned that, but I didn't—well, if he's all right then you'd better get going. The Weasleys and Luna're waiting in the passage for you lot. The Death Eater's are out in droves looking for Potter, so best hurry it up.” 

Thomas nods, tugging the sleeve of Draco's robes. “Come on.” 

Draco allows himself to be dragged forward in a daze, not entirely prepared to face Weasleys he hasn't spent weeks on end living with. 

He watches as Thomas climbs up onto the mantle where a painting is flung wide, a secret door leading down to a passage. 

“Well, go on then, Malfoy.” Draco turns, staring into eyes just like Dumbedore's. He swallows, nods, and then quickly follows after Thomas. There is a staircase where Luna is waiting for them, smiling benignly, as though this is just another ordinary day. Draco tries to take heart in her smile, but behind her three Weasley's, Lee Jordan, and Cho Chang are glaring at him. He falters. 

“I'm glad you came,” Luna says. “Harry will be too.” 

Draco doubts this, but doesn't put voice to it. 

Ginny Weasley snorts. “Yeah, right.” 

“He will be,” Luna insists. 

“Sure Malfoy didn't do somethin' to Harry?” one of the Weasley twins asks. “Could be he's got him Imperiused or something.” 

“Potter can fight it,” Draco says automatically. Everyone knows that Harry Potter can fight off the Imperius curse, or at least Draco has always assumed it is common knowledge. 

“Then Confundus,” Jordan offers. 

“Draco didn't have a wand to do that,” Luna points out pragmatically. 

“So what? He shouldn't be here,” Ginny snaps. “It's probably a plot to get to Harry.” 

Draco has no plots or plans that could ruin Potter, yet Ginny's words feel like a blow to him. They ring with truths Draco wishes were lies, and he hates himself more for not being strong enough to stay behind. He is about to fight a war while one still wages within, and he still doesn't know which side will claim him in the end. He swallows, avoiding the accusatory gazes of the three Weasleys and Jordan. 

“Nothing to say to that, eh Malfoy? Can't deny it, can you?” 

“Would you even believe him?” Thomas asks. Draco tries not to let his shock show. 

“No,” Ginny says shortly, eyes narrowed. “Fine. Whatever. Harry will probably kick him out the moment he sees him anyways.” 

“Doubt it,” Thomas says under his breath as she turns and begins marching down the corridor. Everyone follows after. The Weasley twins slow their pace, keeping a close eye on Draco, but they say nothing. 

The walk is long and tense. Ginny leads the way, Luna and Cho at her heels, while the Weasley twins and Jordan intentionally lag behind. Draco's hands begin shaking before they've made it to the other end, and once they have he is sweating on top of that. He swallows as Ginny climbs the steps and pushes open a door. Light filters into the tunnel and he can hear a cacophony of voices from the room beyond.

“We got your message, Neville!” Luna is saying, just behind Ginny. 

“Ginny.” Potter's voice breaks on the name. “Luna, what are doing here?” The sound of Potter's voice sends Draco's anxiety over the edge. He steps back, his heart beating wildly and his palms sweating. He does not register that he is breathing in loud, ragged breaths; he hears it, from a distant place, aware that it must be him who sounds as though he is choking, but he is unable to regulate his breathing. Cho Chang, the Weasley twins, and Lee Jordan have already disappeared into the room, but Thomas turns, staring down the steps at him. 

“Malfoy?” 

“I—I can't—I can't do this,” he says weakly. “I'm going to—this is a terrible idea. I can't—”

Thomas looks pained, but he approaches Draco determinedly. There is an awkward moment when he stares at Draco before reaching out to pat Draco's back, more forceful than necessary for how stiff the gesture is. “Er, there there,” he tries. “Look, I'm really not the best person for this, but Luna's right. I mean, I don't like you, but you did save Harry, so you must not be all bad.” 

Draco laughs a bit hysterically. “N-not all bad? I—the things I've done—”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, his voice gone bitter. “I'm well aware, Malfoy. But here's the thing: right now, I'd rather have another person on our side than on their side. We can worry about the past later, yeah? I mean, you must be sorry for it all, otherwise you wouldn't have done what you did. You wouldn't be here if some part of you didn't believe this was right.” 

Draco feels like he has been dipped in an ice cold bath. He shudders, closing his eyes as the world spins. 

A hand is gripping his shoulder, steadying him, and he only just realizes that he is about to fall over as he is righted. He sucks in a breath, trying to force himself to be calm. “R-right,” he says. “I—I am. Sorry. I really am.” 

He is getting better at apologizing, and through the anxiety he is distantly proud of himself. He places his hand on Thomas', opens his eyes and squares his jaw. It has been weeks since he has practiced actively compartmentalizing his emotions, but now the skill comes in handy. Occlumency may be useless now that his secrets are laid bare and the Dark Lord is far from him, but it helps him to push past the anxiety clinging to him. He still feels as though he is floating out of his body, but now at least he feels tethered to it. 

Thomas gives him a wary look.

“I—I'm better,” he says quietly. “I'll be okay.” 

“If you're sure.” 

“Dean?” Finnegan is calling for Thomas, coming up to the door and staring down the passage. His eyes alight on him, completely overlooking Draco, and he launches himself through the door at his best friend. Draco takes a step back to give them space, then wishes he had already rushed through the door as they kiss. He feels like an intruder on a private moment, and he tries to edge past them without drawing attention to himself. 

“Thank Merlin,” Finnegan whispers, pressing his forehead against Thomas'. He is smiling widely, tears at the corners of his eyes. “I'd thought—Malfoy?! What the fuck?!” 

“Seamus—”

“Malfoy's here?” Weasley says from the room beyond, though with less anger or annoyance than he would have a month ago. 

“What the hell? Who let him through—”

“How could a Death Eater even get in here?” 

“He's gonna get us all killed!” 

“Shut up!” Draco has never heard Luna sound so angry. He has always thought her incapable of outright anger until this moment. 

“Luna, you're not serious—” 

“She is,” Potter says. “He saved us when we got caught and taken to Malfoy Manor.” 

There is a heavy silence from the room, and Thomas gently nudges Draco towards the door. Before he can climb the short staircase someone is standing in the doorway, blocking his entrance. 

“Look what the kneazel dragged in,” Michael Corner is saying. 

Draco stumbles back, colliding with Thomas before tumbling to the floor. Draco doesn't have time to change his mind about the whole thing because Potter appears behind Corner, his eyes flashing like the night they'd escaped the Manor. 

“Leave him alone,” he growls, teeth bared as if he's trying not to snarl and failing. 

Corner turns to stare at Potter in fascinated horror. Behind them there is a noise like an angry cat. 

“Harry, you're not serious?” 

“Ginny, please.” Potter's voice is gentle, but strangled.

“Harry, just because he saved you—”

“It's not just that. He's different now.” Luna appears in Draco's line of sight. “Oh, Draco, what are you doing on the floor?” 

“O-oh,” Draco says, voice trembling, “you know, just...thought I'd have a rest.” 

“That's a good idea. Best get that in before the fighting starts,” Luna says brightly. 

“What the fuck? Harry, I thought you'd at least see reason!” Ginny sounds as angry as a nest of hornets. “He's a Death Eater! He's got the Mark!” 

“Ginny, leave it. He saved us—”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “He probably just tripped—”

“Hardly,” Draco snaps. He has never been self-sacrificing or brave, and he will not let someone take that moment from him. He has spent enough nights lying awake thinking about what brought him to Shell Cottage, has had enough nightmares about the whole ordeal, and though he still feels conflicted, one thing is clear to him: he saved Potter on purpose. Conscious or not it was intentional, and for one, brief shining moment he was a hero. “I may be a nasty Death Eater to you for the rest of my life, but don't ever accuse me of accidentally throwing myself onto a knife. I did it on purpose, Weasley.” 

Ginny stares down at him, her mouth working as though she wants to shout at him but can't find the right insults to throw. 

“Don't you talk to my sister that way,” one of the Weasley twins has returned to scowl down at him. 

“Stop it!” Potter says, and his voice echoes down the passageway in a strange way. It is as though he has magically amplified his voice and it sends a thrill of terror down Draco's spine. Or perhaps it is not terror, but excitement and he is too hopped up on anxiety to know the difference. Potter is defending him to his girlfriend, to people he sees as family. Draco feels tingly all over and only barely manages to keep the smile off his face as he gets to his feet. 

“Malfoy's on our side now,” Potter says, and it feels so good to hear him say it that Draco smiles. “You don't have to like it, but no more fighting. We'll have plenty of time for fighting _actual_ Death Eaters soon enough.” 

“He is one,” Ginny says, as though she needs to get the last word in, but seems satisfied once she has said this. She lifts her head high and turns away from Potter, moving back into the room proper. 

“Come on, Malfoy,” Potter says. “You best get in here so everyone can get used to this.” 

Draco nods, but before Potter can return to the group, Draco grabs his hand, stopping him. “I—last night—”

Potter shakes his head. “You're here,” he says quietly, as though he is afraid speaking it aloud will somehow change the reality of it. “That's all that matters.” 

“But—”

“Later,” Potter says firmly. 

Draco worries there won't be a later as Potter disappears into the room. Luna hums. “He really is glad you're here, you know?” 

Draco casts an unsure, but grateful smile her way. “Thanks.” 

“Don't mention it. Now let's hurry up so we can hear what Harry's plan is.” 

***

The moment Potter and Luna disappear Draco feels cornered. 

It is not that anyone actively says anything, it is simply the animosity in the room is so much more difficult to bear without Potter and Luna as buffers. Granger and Weasley are absorbed in a whispered conversation that seems rather urgent, but everyone else besides Thomas is watching him warily. 

“So, Malfoy,” one of the Weasley twins says, far too casually. “When do you plan on betraying all of us?” 

Draco tenses, trying to push down the spike of panic the comment ignites in him. “I-I'm not. I'm on your—”

“Oh, come off it,” Lee Jordan says with a smile that is all teeth. 

Granger and Weasley are still unaware of the conversation, and Thomas is engrossed in talking with Finnegan. Draco is at the mercy of a group of people he has done nothing but terrorize for years. He has no one to vouch for him, no one to fight this battle for him; it is all up to him. 

“Maybe we should just take care of him now,” one of the Weasley twins says carelessly, twirling his wand. “It'd be better than letting him loose. He's likely to stab us all in the back.” 

“I like the way you think, Fred,” the other Weasley twin says. Draco doesn't remember his name. He thinks it starts with a G, or maybe a P. He sneers at them, but he knows it is a weak shadow of his former self. It feels all too exhausting to pretend anymore, to put up walls and maintain a cruel facade that is no longer true to who he is—though who exactly he is remains unclear. Nonetheless, he is unable to stop the knee-jerk reaction, the sneer that always comes when he needs to hide his true feelings and he hates himself because he'd been doing so much better stuck in that cozy cottage so far removed from war. This just proves that his resolve, his strength of character is weak, and the accusation in each gaze makes his skin crawl. 

He could leave, he _should_ leave, and his gaze flicks longingly to the exit, but the reality is he can't. Not only will this group not allow him to leave, not only would he have no where to go, but most importantly, he cannot bring himself to disappoint Luna or Potter. He feels as conflicted as ever, knows this to be foolish, but he is trying with everything he has not to be a coward—or not as much of one—and he thinks that counts for something even if he is still sneering defensively around the room. 

“Harry will be upset if we hurt him,” Ginny says, and Draco's sneer slips. He thinks for a moment she might actually be trying to keep the peace and it startles him into hopefulness. “I think we should just tie him up.” 

“I haven't done anything!” Draco says frantically, taking a step back. Weasley and Granger finally look up. 

“Yet,” Ginny says. 

“And you've done plenty before,” Cho Chang chimes in. “You think we're all stupid? Just because you showed up with Luna doesn't mean you're different. She's barking as is—”

“Don't talk about her like that!” The echo of Draco's and Ginny's voices brings silence. They stare at one another across the room, while everyone looks between them. Ginny's eyes narrow her as she sizes him up, her gaze falling to his arm. “We're not going to take any chances if you've got the Mark.” 

“What?” 

“Show us your arm, Malfoy.” 

“W-why?” 

“You want us to trust you?” she asks. “Show us.” 

He takes another step back, eyes shooting around the room. 

“Ginny,” Granger says, her voice tense, “this isn't right.” 

Ginny narrows her eyes. “Him being here isn't right, Hermione. How can you defend him?” 

“You weren't there, Ginny—”

“And who's fault is that?!” she shouts, jumping to her feet, tears in her eyes. “I'd have been there with you three if he'd have let me! But no, 'Ginny, you can't come. It's dangerous. I want you to stay safe. It's for the best.'! Best for who? Certainly not for me. Maybe if I'd been there I'd know why it is he and Luna suddenly like Malfoy, and why you of all people are defending him. He's not helpless, Hermione, and you should know that better than anyone.” 

Granger narrows her eyes, straightening and squaring her jaw. “You think I've forgotten? I spent weeks in your brother's house with him. I never once forgot what he's done, the things he's said to me. Not once. But I saw him change; I watched him struggle with himself; I helped tend to him when he was so badly injured we thought he'd die. All I could think when my hands were covered in his blood was 'why?' Why did he do it? Why jump in front of Harry? For all we know that knife might not have even hit the mark! But he still did it, and as far as I'm concerned he saved Harry that night, so yes, Ginny, I'm defending him. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten what he's done.” 

In the wake of Granger's words, the room feels oppressive, heavy with meaning. Draco feels like he has been cut open repeatedly, as though he is back in the girl's bathroom as a ghost tries to comfort him and Granger has just shouted _Sectumsempra!_ , slashing him open and baring his soul for all the room to see. He had watched Granger's uncertainty turn to something else during their time together at Shell Cottage, but it is another thing to see himself through her eyes, to learn that she'd had his blood on her hands in a desperate fit to save him after having just been tortured in his home. He swallows, his throat tight with emotion, and tries to ignore the way all eyes have turned to him. 

“I still say he should show us if he's got the Mark,” Ginny says, her voice quivering. Longbottom has taken up Luna's old seat and puts his arms around her, rubbing her back soothingly. Ginny seems to deflate, but her anger is replaced by something else, something that makes her eyes shine like glass. “You don't know what it's been like here, Hermione.” 

“You're right, Ginny. I don't. But you don't know what it was like spending over a month cooped up in a house with him.” 

“Gin, Hermione's right,” Weasley says, and there is a collective gasp throughout the room. “What? Look, Malfoy's still a git, but he hasn't been so bad since he came to Bill's with us. Getting stabbed in the back's gotta change a bloke, yeah?” 

“More like living with the Dark Lord,” Draco says weakly. There is nothing left for him on the other side of that tunnel—his salvation is here, in this room, in this castle, in this moment. Granger has already started the blood-letting; he might as well finish it. He takes in a steadying breath, trying to find strength in the memory of Luna's smile and Potter's strange banter. He does not have to be weak, he does not have to betray anyone. “I...have the Mark,” he admits, and pulls up his sleeve to reveal the now dormant Dark Mark.

Everyone frowns.

“That's not the Dark Mark, Malfoy,” Longbottom says, sounding almost confused. The Weasley twin's snicker, raising eyebrows as if to mock him. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “This is Potter's doing. He—well, he talked to it, told it to go to sleep.” He lets his sleeve fall back down. “It's dormant now. I have it, but not only will I not use it, I can't.” 

“So you have the Mark,” Ginny says, but her voice is caught between emotions: confusion and hesitation, anger and self-righteousness. 

“A dormant one,” Weasley points out. “He was at Bill's with us for weeks, you know? If he'd wanted Harry dead he'd have done it then, wouldn't he? I mean, all he'd need to do is touch that thing and BAM! You-Know-Who woulda shown up.” 

There is a collective murmur of agreement throughout the room. 

“So we're just gonna let him fight with us cause his Mark isn't active?” Lee Jordan asks. “I don't like it.” 

Another murmur of agreement ripples around the room. 

“Me neither,” the Weasley twins both say. 

“I'd really rather not,” Chang says. 

“Can't say I'm too thrilled with the idea myself,” Longbottom agrees. 

“Why did you do it?” Ginny asks. 

Draco almost bites his tongue to stop himself from the defensive retort that rises at the question. He had hoped it would be enough to show them, that it would be proof solid of his change of heart, that he could close the wounds and hide himself from them once more, but these people have not spent weeks with him and they do not trust him—they have no reason to after years of torment, after all. And they are not like Luna, who is so different from anyone else in the world; Luna, who is so kind and so soft and more forgiving than anyone ought to be; Luna, who sees the good in everyone. They are not like Potter, either; not like the hero Draco had grown up hearing about and found to be every bit as worthy of that title with all his fierceness and bravery and his heart that is too good for this world. 

That part of him that he thinks is still stronger than whatever spark of good he'd found in himself fights to overshadow the moment of honesty. He wants to sneer again and put up those walls, but Granger is watching him and he thinks about all the things he has said and done to her over the years: the taste of 'Mudblood' is on his lips like bile and it settles in his stomach like an illness. If he wavers now, what will she say? 

“I never wanted any of this,” he says softly, with as much conviction as he can manage as he meets Granger's gaze. It hurts like the knife in his back, as it should. “I really didn't, and I'm...sorry. I only ever took the Mark to save my family. The Dark Lord wanted to make an example of us, so I had to—I don't like what I did, but I didn't think there was another way.

“I can't change the past, I can't undo any of what I've done, but I...I want to help. I want to try to make things right. I know I'm not good or anything like that. I'm not a hero and I've never been kind to anyone here, so I don't expect any of you to trust me, but that's the truth.” 

He does not know what else to say, or if saying anything else would help. He doesn't want to sound as though he is trying too hard, and feels that his voice has already gone flat with the need to deflect and hide this vulnerability, the words becoming more staccato the longer he speaks. He waits for something, anything from the gathered group. Their silence is oppressive and hard to suffer, and the longer he waits the more the anxiety tries to crush his lungs in a vice. 

“You're not very convincing,” Michael Corner says. 

“I'm telling the truth.” His voice shakes on the words, on the truth because he still wonders if this is all a lie. How can he become the person Luna believes he is when his past is a polluted wasteland of bigotry and cruelty? How can he be the sort of person who doesn't shy away from Granger's touch because a voice in his head is whispering 'Mudblood'? 

“Well, that's the thing, mate, we don't believe you,” Anthony Goldstein says. “Why should we? We might as well tie you up and be done with it.” 

“No.” Granger's voice is like iron, her jaw clenched tight. “That's not going to happen.” 

“Come on, Hermione,” a Weasley twin whines. 

Granger shakes her head. “Absolutely not. He's done more than enough to prove he's changed.” 

“Says you.” 

“Says Potter, too,” Draco snaps, frustration spiking like a Firebolt taking off. “It's good enough for him.” 

“Yeah, but Harry hasn't been here,” Longbottom says softly. Given their history, Draco had expected more from him sooner. He waits with baited breath. “We have. And in all honesty, you've been a bit...passive. So what's different now? Why would you risk your life to stop all this when you weren't standing up to them before?” 

“I was bloody living with _him_ ,” Draco spits out, and the Firebolt is speeding through him, thrumming through him hot and itchy. He has no right to be angry, but he is. He doubts himself as much as they do, and yet he feels righteous indignation at the thought that they might not recognize him. “What did you think was going to happen if I'd done anything? Look what it got you! A fat lot of good a bloody lip and a black eye have done you. Your resistance has barely done more than tick them off, Longbottom. And what would you have done if I'd tried to come here? If I'd wanted help? You'd have cast me out. The only reason I'm standing here now is because Potter and Luna spoke up for me.” 

Longbottom's expression is contemplative, passive, cool. He takes his time processing Draco's words, takes his time to look Draco over. It feels like a lifetime of waiting. 

“All right,” Longbottom finally says, rising to his feet. Draco is thrown momentarily for a loop. He stares as Longbottom approaches him and extends a hand. “If Harry trusts you, then I'll give you a chance. But if you do anything to betray us, Malfoy, I'll make you regret it, got it?” 

Draco narrows his eyes, just a little bit unnerved. He doesn't doubt that Longbottom will act on it if Draco does in fact betray them—a small part of him thinks _when_ but he quashes it, ignoring the knot that forms in his gut. He takes Longbottom's hand and gives it a quick, firm shake. Longbottom squeezes a bit harder than necessary before releasing him. 

“Duly noted,” he says dryly. 

Everyone in the room watches, some narrow-eyed and mistrustful, others curious, but no one says anything to contradict Longbottom. Draco allows himself a moment of relief. 

“Right! Now that's cleared up, Ron and I will be back in a moment,” Granger says brightly. “Just got to.... go to the bathroom. Try not to kill Malfoy while we're gone.” 

She and Weasley head for the stairs without another word, leaving Draco alone with a room full of people who have only decided to trust him by a margin. He watches, the relief gone, and waits for the room to turn on him. It doesn't happen, but the tension does not ease. 

“Do you reckon it'll be all out war once Harry's back?” Macmillan asks conversationally. 

There is a murmur throughout the room as everyone shares looks. 

“I'll need a wand,” Thomas mutters. 

“You don't have a wand?” Finnegan asks aghast. “How'd you get here then?” 

“Malfoy Apparated us,” Thomas says with a shrug. “He and Luna have got wands. Ollivander sent them ones just the other day.” 

“He sent Malfoy a wand, but not you?” 

“What's that about?” Finnegan asks, turning to Draco. 

“I haven't the faintest idea.” He still cannot fathom the enigma of his new wand, nor why it would not work for him earlier. If it is all-out war, then he hopes his wand doesn't fail him. It brought them here, at least, but that is hardly a guarantee. 

As conversation picks up around him, Draco shuffles away from the group, keeping himself apart. His thoughts wander as he waits for the moment when Potter and Luna return. It has not been long, but he hopes the trip to the Ravenclaw common room will go swiftly. He does not want to think about what it will mean if it does not. 

Before he can go to far down that dark path, the door from the tunnel opens. 

“Mum?” Ginny and the Weasley twins call in unison, getting to their feet. 

“Ginny! What on earth—Fred, George! Why did you bring your sister?” 

“I'm going to help,” Ginny says in exasperation before her brothers can respond. 

Before Mrs. Weasley can argue with her daughter, there are more people entering: Lupin, followed by Bill and Fluer, then old members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, another red-haired man who Draco thinks he recognizes as Arthur Weasley, and finally a man Draco has never seen before. He keeps himself close to the wall and away from the group, determined to go unnoticed. 

“We tried to get as many people rounded up,” Bill says. “Where're Harry, Ron, and Hermione?” 

“Ron and Hermione went to the loo,” Thomas says, sounding confused. “Luna took Harry up to Ravenclaw Tower.” 

“And what about—oh, Draco, there you are.” Bill is smiling as though Draco is an old friend. Draco smiles back, weakly.

“Draco, come sit with us,” Fleur says, ushering him over as if she has not spent the better part of a month hating him and wanting him gone from her home. He doesn't blame her for any of that, but he finds her unexpected kindness strange and hard to swallow. Is this a trick? Are they all going to turn on him suddenly? Do they know he will betray Potter? 

He is not used to accepting kindness so readily. Luna is so different; her kindness is easy to trust. Other people are not like Luna; other people always expect something. Or maybe that's just him, maybe that is just the Malfoy way. Maybe these people are genuine and sincere. Potter trusts them, doesn't he? 

_But he also trusts me_ , Draco cannot help but think.

He shakes this thought away and takes the seat next to Fleur, grateful to at least have proof solid for the others to see that he isn't the same person. He doesn't know why he is so determined to prove this when he is also just as sure that he will betray Potter in the end, but for some reason this all matters to him almost as much as it matters to him that he not betray Potter. He curls his hands in the fabric of his robes, trying to keep the anxiety that still sits in his chest at bay.

The noise around him is too much now that the room is so crowded. He waits, his eyes rooted to his hands, trying to keep himself grounded, to compartmentalize everything the way he'd been taught. It would be easier with Luna here and he tries not to let his mind wander back to all the reasons as to why it is taking her and Potter so long to return. He has already spent the entire day worrying about Potter, and worry in the midst of battle will only get him killed. Compartmentalizing has never been his forte though. His feelings come in waves, strong as a tempest, and they often blindside him—especially where Potter is concerned. He has improved, of course, otherwise he would never have learned Occlumency, but he is not an expert. He does not have the control needed for it, and it is all the worse on the brink of war, with his anxiety roiling like an angry beast within. 

Fleur pats his hand, startling him from his thoughts. “You are very worried for 'arry,” she whispers. 

He nods. “He's been gone a while,” he says softly, unable to look at her. 

There is an unexpected commotion at the castle's entrance to the secret hideaway and, as if summoned by his thoughts, Potter and Luna descend into the room. It is such a relief to see them that Draco feels his chest loosen, but there is hardly time to appreciate the sight of them before the room explodes with noise. 

“Harry, what's happening?” Lupin manages to make himself heard about the din of chatter from the newest arrivals. 

“Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading the school—Snape's run for it—What are you doing here? How did you know?” 

“We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore's Army,” a Weasley twin chimes in. “You couldn't expect everyone to miss the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.” 

“What's first, Harry? What's going on?” The other Weasley twin looks eager to begin fighting. 

Draco swallows a lump in his throat, his awareness of the room slipping from him as the words he'd been dreading slip from Potter's mouth and words wash over him. “We're fighting.” 

At once, everyone rises and races for the exit, the noise of Order members, D.A. Members, and former students a cacophony that shatters the fragile hold Draco has on his compartmentalized emotions. 

This is all too real and there is nothing Draco can do now. The anxiety is almost debilitating, nothing at all like the nightmares of the last month or the fear of sitting in this room with people who have nothing but hate for him. The Dark Lord is coming for Potter, the Death Eaters will be out en mass, and Draco still doesn't know where he fits into all of this. He cannot move, he cannot breathe, and he barely registers the sound of Luna calling his name. 

“Draco,” she says, standing before him and staring down at him with her wide, dreamy eyes as clear as crystal. The light catches the red of them and reminds him of rose quartz, of the necklace his mother used to wear before everything changed. It reminds him of a simpler time, a time he longs for so forcefully he is momentarily transported to it. His eyes burn as he stares up at Luna. 

“Aren't you coming?” she asks him, expectant and hopeful. 

“Luna, Malfoy, come on,” Thomas calls from the bottom of the staircase, waiting for them. Finnegan looks on, his hand linked with Thomas'. Draco can see that his knuckles are straining, that he is holding on to Thomas for dear life. It is a feeling he knows all too well. 

Luna extends her hand to him and, unthinking, he takes it and she pulls him to his feet. 

He has made his decision, now it's time to see it through. 

***

The Great Hall is packed with confused students. The whisper of Harry Potter hums through the air. Every time he hears the name something inside him bursts like bubbles. Luna keeps hold of his hand, his only source of support and strength, the only thing grounding him to the present. Eyes follow them as she leads him to the Ravenclaw table. 

“Isn't that Draco Malfoy?” 

“What's he doing here?” 

“Where's he been?” 

The whispers follow them, the same way Potter's name does, but these feel like bugs crawling on his skin, burrowing deep to make a home in him. It is his guilt and the fear become physical, and he grips Luna's hand tighter beneath the table. 

“Draco?!” Pansy's voice is loud over the din of the Great Hall. She stares at him as he sits with Luna, the confusion in her expression morphing into anger as quickly as a snitch disappears. 

Draco swallows as Pansy stalks towards him and every head in the hall turns to them. 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Her voice is a strained whisper, high and quivering and carrying. His words are caught in his throat, but before he can decide how best to answer, she is opening her mouth to bombard him with more questions. “What the _hell_ are you doing with _her_? Why the hell didn't you come back after Easter holidays? What happened at the Manor? Everyone was talking! They said Potter—”

“I—I can't, Pansy,” he says, unable to look at her. He is ashamed, and that shame makes him hate himself more. How can he be ashamed for what he's done? He doesn't want the Dark Lord to win, he doesn't want Potter to die. But the ghost of his old life stands before him in the shape of Pansy Parkinson. Her judgment is palpable, and he still cares too much about her to be unaffected. 

“Miss Parkinson, return to your House table!” Professor McGonagall has always had the ability to make Draco feel small. As she descends upon them, eyes narrowed at Pansy, Draco feels himself shrink. Luna gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Pansy glares. “You're not my head of House,” she snaps. 

McGonagall's glare outmatches Pansy's by miles. “Indeed, and I thank Merlin for that blessing. Now return to your table.” 

“If I have to go, why doesn't Draco?” 

McGonagall doesn't look at him. This is somehow worse than if she had. “Mr. Malfoy is not causing a scene, therefore he may sit with whoever he wishes to.” 

Pansy crosses her arms. “I won't cause a scene then,” she says. “Please, Professor. I've—I've been so worried.” 

He is sure this is a lie and that her only motivation is to find out the truth from him. McGonagall must know this too because she catches Draco's eye. “Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco swallows. He doesn't want to speak with Pansy or anyone else he'd once counted as his friend. He cannot take the judgment and he doesn't know if he can trust them, if they'd listen to him, or if they'll even be his friends now that he's allied himself with blood-traitors and Muggleborns. He doesn't know if he wants to be their friends either, not now after everything he's been through, but the feelings for them are not gone and he fears for what it might do if he does maintain those friendships. 

It is a lonely thought and a heavy price for doing the right thing, but Draco is momentarily afforded a sense of relief. He is sticking to his decision, he isn't backing down even in the face of his friends. He nods to McGonagall and Pansy grins triumphantly before taking a seat across from him. The Ravenclaws around her scoot away, keeping a fair bit of distance between themselves and her. 

“So,” Pansy says, voice prim and tight. 

Draco swallows, glancing to Luna. She is watching the ceiling intently, divining what she can from the magical sky above them and allowing Draco and Pansy a semblance of privacy. He steels himself by squeezing Luna's hand. She squeezes back, gently. 

“What have you heard?” 

“Only that Potter got caught by Snatchers and taken to your home,” Pansy says. She knows more than this, but she won't admit to it. “Oh, and of course that he escaped. You didn't come back from the holiday. I thought... well, I'd thought the worst. I mean, your family was punished, weren't they?” She glances at Luna, but she is still watching the stars as serene and calm as ever. Draco's stomach knots, fear for his family taking over, but Luna gives his hand another gentle squeeze and the calm of her washes over him like the soothing warmth of a nice shower after a long day. He releases as much of his fear as he can, setting it aside for later. 

“I don't know,” he says. His voice is no longer shaking, he feels as sure as he can be with Pansy's judgment and Ravenclaws beginning to eaves drop on his conversation. “I wasn't there.” 

Pansy narrows her eyes. “So it's true. You left with Potter.”

“In a manner of speaking. I... I didn't mean to, but I don't regret it.” 

“Draco—” 

“I don't,” he interrupts. “I—I'm not the same anymore, Pansy.” 

Her lip curls in distaste. “Oh, now suddenly you're one of them? Going to run off with the noble heroes and save the day?” 

Draco shakes his head. “I'm not like them,” he says softly. “I'm not brave like that, but I'm not like you either. Not anymore. I don't—I don't think he's right, my father or the Dark Lord.” 

“You're going to die, Draco,” she whispers. “You're going to die and it's going to be your own fault!” 

She stands up suddenly, tears in her eyes and storms back to the Slytherin table where everyone else from his year is eagerly waiting for her report.

“You're not going to die, Draco,” Luna says softly as McGonagall calls everyone's attention to her. 

“I wish I believed you.” He watches McGonagall as she stares around the room, avoiding Luna's intent gaze. 

“Students, as you are by now are, the school is no longer safe. Due to unexpected circumstances, we must immediately evacuate the school.” 

Fearful whispers rise like the tide, but they are short lived. McGonagall instantly silences them with a look. “Panic will not do us any good. You will be safe, as long as you listen and do as instructed.” 

Draco catches movement from the corner of his eye as Potter slips into the Hall and his heart is instantly in his throat. 

“The evacuation,” McGonagall continues,” will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.” 

“And what if we want to stay and fight?” Macmillan is standing on his feet, wand held tightly in his hand. 

If you are of age,” McGonagall says over applause, “you may stay.” 

“What about our things? Our trunks, our owls?” someone from the Ravenclaw table calls. 

“We have no time to collect possessions. The important thing is to get you out of here safely.” 

“Where's Professor Snape?” There is an angry murmur around Draco as all eyes turn to the Slytherin table.

“He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk,” McGonagall says, and Draco's anxiety spikes as cheers erupt all around from every House save his own. 

It is difficult to hear McGonagall over the excitement around him, but before she can say more, a familiar voice echos throughout the hall, high and cold and terrifying. Draco's heart beats so fast he can barely hear the words being spoken, his vision tunneling so rapidly he is sure he will pass out. He sways in his seat, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and his breath going ragged. 

“I know that you are preparing to fight.” Throughout the Great Hall, there are screams. Draco feels the words move within him, undulating like the snake that had once been branded to his skin. His heart is rioting in his chest, his mind is spinning out of control, falling down a black hole of despair as he trembles beside Luna. Her hand is no longer enough to ground him. 

“Your efforts are futile.” A laugh bubbles within Draco, hysterical and desperate. He isn't a fighter, he isn't a hero, and the Dark Lord is right. This is a pointless endeavor. He is not in the Great Hall anymore; he has returned to the Manor, to the dark nights of lessons in torture and murder with the Dark Lord watching him. “You cannot fight me.” 

Across the room, green eyes meet his. They don't belong to this place, to this memory, to this trauma. Green eyes, bursting with stars; green eyes, fierce and alive; green eyes, so intent upon him as he raises his wand to torture— 

Draco gasps for breath, his hand gripping Luna's so tight it must hurt, his other clutching the wood of the table before him. 

“Draco,” Luna whispers, as the Dark Lord's words continue to echo like morbid song around them. 

“I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.” 

The only noise in the hall now comes from him, everything else is silent. He is still trying to breathe, still trying to fight against the terror and the memories. A few people nearby are watching him, but most are too caught up in their own terror to notice his. 

“Give me Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord continues, and something in Draco snaps at this. “And none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.” 

“N-no,” Draco whispers feebly, staring unseeing across the hall at Potter. Luna turns to look at him. This isn't fair, this isn't how it's supposed to happen he thinks desperately. The scars on his back are still tight and painful, still fresh from saving Potter. He can't die, they can't let him die. 

“But he's here!” Pansy's voice is loud in the silence. “Potter's _there_! Someone grab him!” 

“NO!” Draco is not aware that he has spoken so loudly. He is still caught up in emotions and memories, still filled with a terror that keeps him rooted to his seat. There is a murmur from the Ravenclaw table, eyes turning to find him as Gryffindors rise from their seats and turn to face Pansy, wands drawn. 

The Hufflepuff table follows, Ravenclaw hot on their heels. Luna pulls Draco to stand up beside her, steadying him. His knees feel as though they will give out at any moment, but he manages to stand and face Pansy. Her eyes meet his, furious and fearful. 

Draco's wand is somehow in his hand, but he doesn't remember that happening, barely remembers shouting his objections. Everything is hazy save the need to keep Potter from dying—just like that night at the Manor. 

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson.” McGonagall is a force of anger, her voice more clipped than he's ever heard it. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.” 

The grinding of benches is loud to Draco's ears, so loud it's almost overwhelming. He watches his housemates file out of the Hall, glancing back over their shoulders to glare at the rest of the school. Vincent catches his eye and cracks his knuckles. 

“Ravenclaws, follow on!”

Draco does not move. Neither does Luna. In a daze, he looks around to watch as the school slowly evacuates. There are a handful of Ravenclaws left at the table, more Hufflepuffs at the next one over, and McGonagall is ushering underage Gryffindors determined to fight from their table. 

His eyes find Potter in the sea of Gryffindors, but his attention is elsewhere now. Draco hears the echo of the Dark Lord's words again as he watches Potter; hears the echo of his own conflict in that high cruel voice. 

_You cannot fight this,_ his doubts tell him in that high cruel voice. _You will betray Potter. You are a coward. You are weak, Draco Malfoy._

Draco's hand grips his wand so tight it hurts. Around him, someone is talking, giving out orders, but he doesn't register it. 

_Stop fighting, Draco. Accept your fate._

Draco's mouth twists up, more a a silent snarl than a sneer. _No._

“—somebody to organize defense of the entrances of the passageways into the school—”

“Sounds like a job for us,” a Weasley twin calls. 

“All right, leaders up here and we'll divide up the troops!” 

_You're such a fool,_ the voice of his doubts whispers as he rises to his feet to prepare for the upcoming battle. He catches Potter's eye as Potter moves away from his house table. 

_Yeah, _he agrees. _I am. _____


	5. Now That Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every choice that is made comes with a consequence; a cause and a effect; a chain reaction. Some choices come with good consequences, some with bad, but always, it comes with something. Draco is finally ready to accept the choices he makes and the consequences he'll face; come what may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, sadly, brings this fic to an end. I had not originally planned this to be the end, but this chapter was too... final. This particular journey is over, however, there is still more story left to tell. This has become something of a prequel, and so I hope everyone who enjoyed this will stick around for what's coming next! The sequel will be called Survivor's Heart, inspired by the fact that Draco's new wand is considered a "survivor's wand" because of the wood. Wands, being something of a theme here, I felt that was fitting. 
> 
> I've really enjoyed writing this fic--it's been a challenge writing in present tense, but a good one; and more than that, I have greatly enjoyed taking Draco on this journey, presenting him with something more than what was offered to him by his creator. I hope that everyone else has enjoyed reading his journey as much as I've enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Also of note, this chapter's title comes from a line in the poem "Ulysses" by Alfred Tennyson, which is also were the title of the series comes from.

The chaos starts exactly on schedule. 

Draco is still trembling with the anxiety of earlier when the first spell shatters the silence where they stand in wait. Luna is ready with a Shield Charm already up when the first attack comes. It feels as though the entire castle shakes around them, but Luna barely seems to notice. 

“Just remember,” she tells him serenely, “not to worry.” 

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of her claim, but he knows exactly what she means. He grips his wand tighter, his fingers like lead around the smooth wood. His hand feels numb, cold as ice, and the wand itself feels more like a simple stick than a powerful extension of his magic. He swallows down the fear, the worry, the doubt, but another spell flies into the castle, shattering a window nearby. 

His panic rises. 

“We'll be all right,” Luna tells him.

“Get it together, Malfoy!” Lee Jordan yells as a statue nearby explodes. 

“Don't make me regret not tying you up,” a Weasley twin snaps, sending a spell out of a newly broken window. 

He looks down at his wand, at the unfamiliar wood and the foreign shape of it. It brought him here; it can get him through the night. He raises his wand, steeling himself. His first wand is somewhere with Potter, who he lost track of far too quickly. He thinks of flowers blooming from his new wand and Potter fighting with his old wand, and his hand grows warm. 

Before he has even decided on what spell to use, the castle shakes again and from outside he can see the cause: Giants. 

“Shit,” Hannah Abott breathes, raising her wand to join Luna in casting a wider shield. 

“No kidding,” Jordan says. 

“What do we do?” Abott asks. 

“Watch for falling rocks,” the Weasley twin snarks. A wayward spell flies through the window, forcing them to scatter. It hits the statue behind them, sending debris flying skyward. A large piece of broken marble bounces off of Luna's shield right above Draco's head. 

“Malfoy, keep watch at the windows,” Jordan tells him. “Oi, Fred, what are you doing?” 

“Pipe down! I think someone's coming up.” 

Jordan and Weasley listen carefully at the destroyed entrance to the secret passage. The grin Fred gives Jordan is far too amused for war. Draco wonders if he ever takes anything seriously, but before long Jordan and Weasley are sending spells down the passage. 

Another spell flies overhead, narrowly missing Draco. He ducks down, out of line of sight, before jumping up and sending a quick Disarming Charm out the window. The feel of the spell makes his skin hot, but he doesn't stop. He casts another charm, narrowing his eyes as a Death Eater on the grounds sneaks up on an unsuspecting student. The Death Eater's wand is sent flying—Draco can tell only because of the way the man stops dead in his tracks. He sends a jinx out the window next, but it flies too wide and misses the mark. 

“Nice night for it!” Fred cries. Draco glances back just in time to see Potter rushing past them. His heart is suddenly in his throat and he tears himself away from the window. 

“Draco! _Protego!_ ” The spell ricochets off of Luna's shield, flying back out the window like an owl realising it's got the wrong address. 

“Pay attention, Malfoy!” 

Draco barely hears the reprimand. “Did you see Potter?” 

“He looked to be in quite a hurry,” Luna says. She waves her wand, sending a bright blue jet of light careening out onto the grounds. “Perhaps he's found the diadem. Wouldn't that be something?” 

Before Draco can answer, Abott shrieks as a Death Eater pushes through the passageway they'd been guarding. Draco barely has time to think before he's casting a hex, sending the Death Eater falling back down the dark tunnel. 

“Nice one!” Jordan cheers. He and Weasley are waving their wands furiously, sending a barrage of spells down the dark passage. “I think we've got 'em on the ropes, Fred!” 

Draco turns back to the window in time to see a nasty green light flying towards them. He dives, catching Luna around the waist and dragging her down with him to safety. “Get down!” 

Jordan and Weasley turn, wide-eyed, and both of them drop to their knees, dragging Abott with them. The pause in the onslaught of spells is just enough for the Death Eaters coming through the passage to push through fully, and before any of them can raise their wands, the Death Eaters are upon them. 

“It's Malfoy!” a familiar voice cries. “A traitor, after all!” 

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. The eyes of the mask are too dark for him to make out any familiar features and his heart is racing so wildly that he feels as though he's gone deaf. He scurries backwards, trying to put distance between himself and them. 

“N-no, I—”

“Poor Lucius,” one of the other Death Eater's says. “He'll be so disappointed. _Avada Ke—_ ” 

_“Reducto!”_

_“Stupefy!_

The two Death Eaters bearing down on Draco fly into the air, limbs flailing every which way as they careen out of control from the force of the combined spells. 

“Draco, hurry!” Luna cries, casting another shield charm over him as one of the Death Eater's flies into a window, shattering the glass. 

He scrambles to his feet, looking around as the others fight. Luna is at his side in an instant, waving her wand and sending another Death Eater stumbling to the floor. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Y-yeah, I—I just—”

He thinks about the denial that was on his lips, about how quickly he was ready to lie about any change of allegiance in the face of a real threat. He swallows, taking a step back, then another. 

“Draco, where are you going?” 

He turns and runs, racing down the corridor and away from his cowardice. His eyes burn and his vision blurs as he rushes past more fighting. His heart thuds wildly in his chest, his feet pounding heavily against the stone floor. He is not aware of where he is going, only that he needs to get away from everyone he might hurt, he needs to find someplace safe—safe from himself. He should have known better than to think he could be a hero. 

The fighting doesn't stop as he runs. It is around him, surrounding him like the press of Apparation, like staring into stars that should be a pair of green eyes but couldn't possibly be for how green they are. He stumbles, falling hard against the stone floor. His hand throbs, small spots of blood welling where skin has been peeled away. He hisses, cradling his hand close to his body and looking around. 

The great oak doors of the school are thrown wide and before him is all bright lights, dancing across the sky. It could be beautiful, but he knows better. 

“Tonks! No!” Lupin's voice is loud over the cacophony of spells, of war. Draco's heart thumps in his chest like the beating of a drum; before he has decided what he's doing with himself he runs out onto the lawns, now tarnished by fires and blood. 

“Professor!” Draco shouts. Lupin is caught up in a frenzy; he is fighting with fierce and graceful motions, pressing his advantage and drawing back when he knows he should. There are tears in his eyes, though, and he doesn't see the Death Eater behind him, he doesn't notice as the hooded figure raises a wand.

“No! _Stupefy!!!_ ” Draco has never felt a spell so strongly. The magic is a nearly painful thing as it rips from him, rushing not from his wand but from every part of himself, racing to meet its target before the worst can happen. There is a thud, soft and diminished beneath the sound of battle, and Lupin turns with wide eyes to see the unconscious man not five feet away. He casts, in quick succession, turning on his heel in a graceful pirouette, and the other two Death Eaters closing in on him are thrown back on a fierce, sharp wind. 

Lupin collapses, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He seems suddenly like a dying animal. The fight has gone from him, but he is the only one who feels whatever crushes him. With spells still flying all around, Draco rushes to Lupin, dragging him back to his feet. 

“Professor, you have to get inside!” He tugs, yanks, pulls. Lupin is dead weight, staring ahead to a place just beyond Daco. He turns his head, fearful that he will be met with the sight of more Death Eaters or Giants or Merlin-knows-what, but all he sees is a prone figure lying in the grass. 

“Come. On!” Draco grunts and gives an all-mighty tug, forcing Lupin to his feet. 

“T-Tonks...” 

Draco barely hears what Lupin is muttering, too caught up in trying to get him inside, in imagining the look on Potter's face if someone else he cares about dies. His throat grows tight at the memory of the Muggle Studies professor. He does not need to see any more of his professors murdered; he doesn't need to see anyone murdered. 

“W-wait,” Lupin whispers, his voice horse. “P-please.” 

“We can't just—”

Lupin pulls out of his grasp, stumbling away from Draco. He is close enough now that he can see that the thing Lupin was so concerned with is in fact the body of a woman. Draco feels a faint sense of nostalgia, like the smell of his mother's perfume still lingering after a hug. The woman's face is unfamiliar, yet somehow he knows her. He follows after Lupin, casting a Sheild Charm as they make their way towards her. 

“Oh, M-Merlin.” Lupin's voice is a trembling, fragile thing. He throws himself to the ground, dragging the woman's lifeless body into his lap. Her eyes stare up into Draco's, empty and hollow. He takes a step back, fear taking him the way invasive plants might take a garden. “N-no!!!” 

Lupin's howl is not human. It should be, but it is like a pack of wolves and Draco shivers. He cannot look away from Lupin and this woman, who he is so sure he knows. 

“Isn't this cute,” a familiar voice sings. “Crying over my dear, sweet sister's—Draco.” 

He feels like rock as he turns to stare at his aunt. She is alive with the fight, vibrating and electric and horrifying. There is blood smeared along one cheek and Draco knows in his gut that it is not hers. 

“Aunt Bellatrix,” he says dully. He knows what she is capable of and he knows, just as surely, that he could not take her in a fight. He swallows, but the stones that were once his legs have taken root in the ground. He does not budge. 

“What is this?” she hisses, glaring between him and Lupin. “We thought—oh, oh dear boy.” Her lip curls, not quite amusement, but still sadistic. “What _have_ you been up to?” 

“Not much,” he says conversationally. He doesn't know where this bravado comes from, but if it keeps her from attacking Lupin even a little bit longer he cannot complain. “Mostly convalescing with Potter in a safe house. You? Killed anyone recently?” 

Bellatrix sneers. “Cissy is going to be very cross with you. We'd thought you'd been taken prisoner.” 

Draco shrugs. “More or less.” 

Bellatrix takes a step forward, twirling her wand lazily. Draco has not dropped his shield, and he can see her eyeing it now, looking for weak spots. He touches Lupin's shoulder, hoping the man has regained some semblance of his former fury. 

“Don't move,” Lupin growls. It is like a chorus of angels—the Muggle kind with wings and harps, of course. 

Bellatrix laughs. “Oh, is the little doggy going to fight! Ha!” 

A spell sings through the air so fast Draco is sure that Lupin didn't even move. Immediately, he and Bellatrix are caught up in one another, fighting so furiously that ozone rises around them like a protective sphere. Draco is left standing, useless and afraid, watching as they fight like rabid animals, wands swiping the air like swords. 

Bellatrix's laugh is as unnerving as it has ever been. She brings down another spell that misses Lupin by mere inches and flies towards Draco's shield. He dives, covering the body at his feet as his shield disintegrates around him. Lupin shouts, calling back to him, “Draco! Go! Get inside!” 

Something in him breaks, stone crumbling from him like the walls of his school—his beloved school. He slashes his wand at his aunt's feet, while she is laughing and dancing giddily around Lupin. She is too wrapped up in her own revelry to see his spell flying towards her. 

“Ahhh!” She screams long and shrill, and falls to the ground, her leg oozing blood onto the grass. “You wretched child! You foul, filthy blood-traitor!” 

_”Incarcerous! Stupefy!_ Lupin's spells put an end to her shrieking tiraid and he quickly races back to Draco, falling to his knees and pulling the woman to him. 

“We should get inside,” Draco says shakily. He pushes himself up, gets carefully to his feet, keeping an eye on the battle around him. 

“C-can you help me with her?” Lupin croaks. He looks up into Draco's face, his eyes almost like the woman's in his arms with how empty they look. 

“Y-yeah.” 

“She was your cousin, you know.” 

Draco grows cold at the words, at the touch of her skin as he pulls one of her limp arms around his shoulder. He knows of her only distantly, only in hushed tones of disgust as his father insists that his mother never speak to her sister, never dare mention the half-breed that came from her sister's union with a Muggle. He swallows down the lump that rises in his throat, swallows the bile and devastation. It is the first time he is meeting his cousin, it is the only time, it is the last. 

There are tears in his eyes that he cannot explain, the same way he cannot explain the lump in his chest, or why he willingly threw himself upon a knife. He wipes at the tears, wipes away the evidence of weakness, but his heart still aches for this woman he has never known and now never will. 

“She's Teddy's mother,” Lupin says suddenly as they make it back into relative safety of the castle. They quickly make way for the Great Hall. “Your second cousin. You remember?” 

Draco nods. “Of course.” 

“Y-you'll come see him, won't you? After all this?” 

Lupin is trying to be strong. His wife, the mother of his child is dead, but he somehow finds it in him to look to the future. Draco's throat constricts so tightly he coughs. 

“Y-yes, I'll come.” 

Lupin gives a quiet, halfhearted, “Good, good.” 

“Over here!” Madam Pomfrey comes bustling over, her face ashen and wan, but determined. “Oh. Oh dear, I'm so sorry.” 

Lupin shakes his head, allowing Pomfrey to levitate Draco's cousin—Tonks—to a bed. Lupin gives Draco's shoulder a squeeze as he pulls away to follow after. “Thanks.” 

“I—I'm sorry.” The words sound like dying. He feels like he's going to break, but he can't afford to now. He's been thrown into the thick of it; thrown into it of his own accord, because of Potter, because of Lupin, because of the family he'd never met, and it is feeling immeasurable. He knows that 'sorry' isn't enough, it could never be enough to bring back the dead, but the words tumble from him. “I'm so sorry.” 

Lupin's lip trembles and a few stray tears roll down his face, but he steels himself against the onslaught. “Thank you, Draco.” 

Lupin was always a good man, Draco recalls as he watches him retreat to the bedside of his dead wife. Draco remembers hating him, but the memories feel wrong and incomprehensible to him now. He touches them like he would a loose tooth, trying to dislodge them somehow and let something new grow in their place. 

_BOOM!_

The entire castle shakes and there is a shattering of glass in the entrance hall. Pomfrey lets out a cry, deep and foreboding. Her wand moves before the doors of the Great Hall and something shimmers like glass before disappearing.

“Things'll be getting worse now,” she tells Draco as she turns back to the injured. 

“It wasn't already?” he asks before he can stop himself. 

Pomfrey gives him a sad look. “It can always get worse, Malfoy. Always.” 

She turns away swiftly, leaving him standing near the door, trying to decide if he wants to go back out into the mess of battle or stay where it is safe. He can see out onto the grounds where a giant lumbers, moving closer to the castle; as all around giant spiders rush from the forest. Draco breathes in deep, then steps beyond the safety of the Great Hall. 

***

“Duck!” Longbottom shouts, lobbing something green and flailing overhead. Draco dives out of the way just in time for the venomous tentatcula to hit the Death Eater he'd been dueling. He doesn't want to know if he knows the person or not, he doesn't want to think about his aunt who has probably bled to death by now thanks to his spell. 

_Potter would be proud,_ he thinks wryly, getting to his feet and thrusting his wand before him as another Death Eater rushes towards him. 

“Are you a blood-traitor, Draco?” the masked-man asks. It sounds like his uncle. 

He lets a small smile curl his lips. “Yes.” He slashes his wand, pretending its a sword, pretending he is five years old again and playing make-believe. He is a knight again, racing to the rescue on a fierce Hippogriff, a sword in hand. 

His uncle splutters as his robes are ripped open. Draco tries not to look at the blood that pools on the floor as his uncle slumps to the ground. He rushes onward, moving up the steps when something heavy and large and unseen barrels into him. 

He gets hit in the side, feels a sharp pain from the scars on his back, and he stumbles into the wall, staring wide-eyed at empty space 

“Potter,” he breathes like it is a holy hymn, like it is his salvation. 

The chaos is still falling around him, and he is distracted by two people falling from the banisters and Fenrir Greyback jumping to attack. Before he can do much damage he is thrown from one of the bodies and then a professor Draco does not know lobs a crystal ball at Greyback's head with such force that he crumples. It is cathartic to watch Greyback's end. 

The doors to the hall bursts violently open and Draco remembers Potter with a start. Down in the entrance hall, spiders—massive and hairy—rush into the school. 

“Don't hurt 'em! Don't hurt 'em!” 

“HAGRID, NO!” 

Potter's voice, the knowledge that it really is him, floods Draco. He whirls around, watching as Potter appears out of no where, rushing after the gamekeeper. 

“HAGRID, COME BACK!” 

The spells raining down on the spiders sends them back the way they'd come, but not without Hagrid, who is somehow caught up in their midst. 

“HAGRID!” 

“Harry!” Granger yells. 

“Potter, you fool!” Draco calls at the same moment. He races down the staircase, jumping the last two and nearly slipping on emeralds as he lands. His house's hourglass is shattered, spilling its contents like intestines onto the floor. It is a bit heavy-handed, but he spares it only a passing thought as he races down onto the grounds after Potter. There are spells being flung this way and that, brilliant and blinding, and he sees Potter standing like an idiot in the middle of it all. He is malnourished and dirty, his head is bleeding, but the light of spells halos him. He is immune, somehow, to the onslaught. 

Then a giant appears, slamming his foot down in Potter's path and sending aftershocks rippling through the ground. Granger and Weasley come to a skidding halt beside Draco, staring at the giant with wide eyes as it smashes a window on one of the upper floors. Glass falls, peppering the steps to the castle and forcing Potter to race back inside for shelter. 

Draco feels as though he cannot breathe. 

“DON'T!” Weasley yells as Granger raises her wand, intent on stopping the giant's attack. “Stun him and he'll crush half the castle—”

“HAGGER?” 

“We better get moving, Harry,” Weasley says. 

“Potter, wait!” 

Potter's eyes snap to his, as though he hadn't realised Draco had been there. 

“Malfoy, we don't have time,” Weasley groans. 

Draco doesn't know why he wants to keep Potter from going out there, but he does. Something constricts within him. “Nevermind. Just—be safe.” He whirls back inside, racing away from the chaos the giant is raining down on the entrance, rushing away from Potter's retreating back. In the hall, there is enough to distract him with: several unconscious students lay prone on the floor. He rolls up his sleeves and waves his wand, levitating each person into the Great Hall for care. 

“Oh, Malfoy, thank you,” Madam Pomfrey says, quickly looking over Lavender Brown. She groans, her face a rictus of blood and flesh and agony. Draco knows better than anyone how skilled Pomfrey is at mending, but even she won't be able to completely heal Brown. Draco remembers her doing her makeup during breakfast with such a pang he feels sick.

“What can I do?” he asks Pompfrey. It possess him, takes root in him—he does not want to spill anymore blood tonight. 

Pomfrey doesn't even bat an eye. “How good are your healing charms?” 

“A little above average.” He remembers healing Luna the first time he saw her in the cellar at the Manor. He thinks of his own cuts, the ones he's never told anyone about—thin, silver lines near the Dark Mark, as though he could cut it out with a Severing Charm. He always heals the cuts within a weak, afraid that someone will see. 

“Good, then get started on him.” She nods towards the bed next to Lavender's where a sixth year is lying awake, staring at the sky. 

“You shouldn't have stayed,” he mutters down at Colin Creevey. 

He grins up at Draco, a little bit dazed, and gives a faint chuckle. “Yeah, well, shouldn't you be with your family?” 

It should be an insult, but there is no bite in the words. Draco wonders if it's because Creevey has a concussion or because he doesn't mean them to be hurtful. He shakes his head, moving his wand over Creevey's head. He knows a few other spells—things he'd taught himself because living with the Dark Lord was a constant test that he needed to be ready for—and he checks Creevey's head for any lasting damage that he is not equipped to heal. 

“Well,” Draco mutters, “things change.” 

Creevey stares up into his face, his grin crooked and loopy. “Harry does that to people, doesn't he?” 

Draco feels himself grow warm and he doesn't meet Creevey's gaze. “I suppose he does.” 

“D'ya think he'll be proud of me?” 

Draco frowns. “I think he'll be furious you stayed behind and got yourself hurt.” At Creevey's crestfallen look he adds, “But, yes, I think he'll be proud of you, too.” 

Creevey sighs. “Good. I—I really had 'em goin', ya know? I was—I was fighting real Death Eaters.” He laughs, shaking his head, forcing Draco to stop his test. “I thought I was gonna die though. I was cornered by these Death Eaters outside—”

“Creevey, stay still. I need—”

“I thought, 'Oh, shit. I'm done for.' But then this spell came outta nowhere and knocked 'em out. I still got it pretty bad later on though. Those giants really know how to throw rocks, don't they?” 

Draco sighs heavily, nodding along. “Yes, Creevey, they do. Now if you don't mind, I believe you have a concussion and I'll need you to keep quiet.” 

Creevey grins. “Right-o, Malfoy.” 

It is a wonder that Creevey actually listens to him and Draco is careful not to talk—especially about Potter—lest he break whatever spell has fallen over his charge. 

“How's he doing over here?” Pomfrey asks ten minutes later. 

“He's—”

“You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery.” 

The Dark Lord's voice shakes the Great Hall, high and cold and sibilant. Draco feels it run him through like his aunt's knife, and he is shaking before he can register what is being said. The words vibrate through him, but they mean nothing; they are gibberish and his heart is going to explode. There is no air left for him to breathe because Potter must be dead his mind supplies as the fear grips him. Potter went off into the night, off to his death—

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.” 

Relief floods him, but the shaking does not subside. 

“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.” 

The silence that follows leaves Draco shaken to the core. This final warning will be enough to spurn Potter on; he knows it as surely as he has always known that he will lose the snitch to Potter. 

“Oh, dear,” Pomfrey says. “It's going to get a lot busier in here. Will you be a dear and stay to help?” 

Draco nods absently. “Of course.” 

Until evidence of Potter surfaces, he can make himself useful. He swallows, turning back to Creevey, who is watching him with wide eyes now. 

“Harry's gonna go to him, isn't he?” 

It is strange that this sixth year, who seems so like a child covered in blood, should know Potter so well. Draco can remember all the times Creevey has followed after Potter, looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes. He has watched Potter almost as doggedly as Draco. The fear coils like the Dark Lord's snake in his stomach. 

“He's an idiot,” Draco croaks. “He—bet you anything though he'll do something ridiculous. I bet he'll—he'll—” Draco knows he is crying over Harry Potter's unconfirmed future demise and that it is impossibly silly, but he cannot stop the tears or the hiccups that escape him. “H-he's a right pain, Creevey. You know him, always coming out at the last second all right. I bet—I bet he won't even die, I bet he'll pull something really dramatic, the attention-se-seeking—”

“Draco?” Luna's voice pulls him from his downward spiral. She somehow floats over to him, despite the cut across her forehead and the dirt covering her face, and she takes up a seat next to Creevey. “Colin, are you all right?” 

Creevey shrugs. “Never better, but Malfoy's 'bout to lose it. Maybe you should—” He flaps his hand at Draco, leaving his sentence unfinished. 

Draco glares at him with tears still in his eyes. 

“Draco, why don't we see who else needs tending to?” Luna asks. 

He allows Luna to guide him away from Creevey, looking down the raised platform and out to the sea of bodies that had once been the house tables. He feels as though he will be sick, and immediately sits down at the edge of the platform, dragging Luna with him. 

“Are you all right?” she asks, gently touching his forehead.

Her fingers are a magic of their own and something soothes the dizziness, calms his frantic heart, and soothes his aching chest. He sighs. “N-no,” he admits. “I—I've killed people tonight—at least, I think I have. And I—I fought family. I fought people I knew. But I—I saved people, too. I saved Lupin, I helped Brown and Creevey. I did it, Luna.” 

“You stopped worrying,” she says gently, taking his hand. She holds his hand, his wand between their palms, and smiles at him. “I knew you could do it.” 

Draco shakes his head. “I—I almost couldn't. I thought—there was a moment when I thought I would really fail.” He stares out over the Great Hall, his eyes catching a sea of red hair, huddled together. Next to them, Lupin sits, staring at his wife in abject misery. It reflects in Draco's own heart, it burns its way through his veins, makes him gag. He heaves, falling against Luna, the shaking that never properly subsided returning full force. 

“H-he's going to die,” he whispers into Luna's lap and it feels like someone is ripping out his heart. “I-I can feel it—”

“Shh.” Luna rocks them gently, back and forth, running her soothing fingers through his hair. “It's all right. Harry knows what he's doing.” 

Draco has never believed that of Potter. Potter is as reckless as a bludger and nothing can stop him once he's set his mind to it. Draco doubts even his best friends could, but he lets Luna's words wash over him, lets her sooth his nerves for long, quiet minutes. It is almost peaceful.

“Oh, look, there's Hermione and Ron,” Luna says, shattering the moment like glass. Draco's eyes snap open and he bolts upright, pain blossoming in his back and head for his troubles. 

“Where?” He spots them before Luna can point them out. The entire Weasley clan, plus Granger and Lupin, are standing around mourning their losses. Draco still has not seen who the Weasley's are mourning, but his mind is elsewhere, scanning the sea of faces for Potter. 

At the entrance to the Great Hall, Potter is staring at the bodies around him, at the gathered Weasleys, at Tonks in her bed, and the horror on his face is clear even from this distance. Draco gets up, but Luna grabs his hand, shaking her head. 

“He'll need a minute,” she offers. “You'll see him again though, don't worry.” 

Draco does not have the conviction that Luna does, but when he turns back to the doors Potter is already gone. 

He swallows down the fear and frustration and grief, and allows Luna to return to calming him as only she can. 

***

He is counting down the minutes until the end of their hour of reprieve, sitting quietly, staring absently around the Great Hall as people mourn. The wounded have been tended to; all mostly healed, save for those who'd suffered the worst, like Brown and Creevey. It is now only bodies, empty and hollow husks of their former selves, that do not weep. It is a strange silence, the whisper of tears and terror filling the brick, rising into the enchanted ceiling and casting a spell of its own over the gathered fighters. 

There is nothing more to do and he feels useless. Draco wants to do something, to move, to talk, to do anything at all, but sit and wait. He wants, he realizes, to help. He knows, logically, that he has already helped, but this feels different somehow. What he wants is not to help because it is the only option, because of the heat of battle and with no thought put into it; what he wants is to truly offer himself up without any agenda, to make that conscious and intentional choice to help someone before himself. It is not an entirely foreign feeling—as a child, he'd liked to help his mother in the gardens. It is a strange juxtaposition to remember the red of roses and to see the blood of his classmates. He has seen far too much blood this night. 

Another minute ticks by. He feels his heart drop to his stomach. There is little time left before the fighting recommences. Draco's stomach roils, burning his heart in its acid. 

“Potter's gone to him, hasn't he?” The words come out like breath, as though he dare not speak them. They fill the whispering, crying silence, loud and harsh to Draco's ears. 

Luna turns to him, tilting her head. “I haven't seen him since...” Her voice trails away, the doubt in her voice confirmation enough for Draco. 

Weasley and Granger are looking at him, staring at him from their place around one of the Weasley twin's death bed. Draco meets their inquiring gazes, and understanding passes between them. Granger's lip trembles and she shakes her head, mouthing a desperate and emphatic _'no'_ like a prayer over and over. 

And all at once the silence is broken by the Dark Lord's voice, clear and resonante. 

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy-Who-Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist—man, woman, or child—will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.” 

Draco feels the words in his soul, which has become a howling tempest in the wake of Potter's death. It shouldn't feel this way; it shouldn't feel like dying; it shouldn't feel like he is standing at the precipice of a great unkonwn about to fall into its depths and be devoured; it should not feel like the knife is piercing him again, twisting within him over and over as he stares into a vibrant nebula of green stars. He lets out a broken, wretched sound, like a sob or gasping for air but so much worse. 

“No! Harry can't be dead!” someone shouts, filling the hall with denial. Whispers break out, angry and desperate. 

“He's a liar,” Draco tells Luna in a daze, hanging onto the lie as though that alone disproves the rest of what must be true. “Potter would never... Potter would never try to escape.” 

There are tears falling down Luna's face, glistening like stardust. Draco has never seen her cry, not even when she was held captive in his home. He takes her hand, squeezing it, his own tears held at bay, kept back with a mantra of _“It can't be.”_

“Of course he wouldn't,” Luna agrees, voice trembling and the dreamy quality of her voice displaced like a nightmare. 

Around them, everyone is buzzing like a nest of angry bees. Draco rises to his feet, and like that everyone is making for the exit, making their way onto the grounds to see the truth of the Dark Lord's words. The angry muttering around him rolls like waves, rising in volume as they step out into the darkness of the early morning. 

Draco knows, as he steps outside and sees the Death Eaters that he will never forget this moment; it will haunt him for the rest of his life, a gnarled scar upon his heart to match the one upon his back. Hagrid is holding Potter in his arms, surrounded by by Death Eaters with their macabre masks and in their black robes so dark they seem to snuff out all light around them. The Dark Lord stands at the front of Potter's funeral procession, his snake draped around him like a scarf. Yet, somehow, Potter looks golden in the darkness, his bronze skin casting a light that death cannot touch; cannot take from him for its power and glory, and Draco could almost believe that Potter is feigning, that he is merely asleep and has somehow escaped death.

“NO!” McGonagall is the first to speak, to shriek, to cry out her denial. It startles Draco, pulls him back to the present reality, reminds him that Potter—beautiful and golden in Hagrid's arms—is not asleep. 

He feels his own heart thud like a punch to the gut, and it seems a terrible, terrible thing. How can he be alive when Potter is dead? When Potter has sacrificed so much to save them all, while Draco has done nothing. 

“No!” 

_“No!”_

“Harry! HARRY!” 

Weasley, his sister, and Granger scream like the tempest within Draco's own soul. 

“SILENCE!” The Dark Lord's wand erupts, light flashing around them and stealing their voices. Draco feels as though he is suffocating. He grabs Luna, pushing through the crowd, blind to his fear in his determination to get closer to Potter. He needs to be sure, he needs to see him up close, to feel that his life has gone from him. 

“It is over,” the Dark Lord hisses, triumphant and proud. He is like a child preening over a piece of terrible art, and Draco's lips curl into that familiar and long-forgotten sneer. “Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet where he belongs!” 

The crowd around him cannot speak, but Draco feels their anger rise. He squeezes Luna's hand, his own anger carrying him farther forward. He breaks through the crowd, coming to stand beside Weasley. He can see, with perfect clarity, Potter lying at the Dark Lord's feet and it is an abomination, a perversion of the Potter he has always known. He feels the anger welling in him so fiercely that he wants to choke; it is a sudden downpour, and there are flood warnings being posted in preparation for the eventual overflowing of Draco's fury. The spell the Dark Lord has cast upon them gags him, but he fights it, vomiting the spell from him like a sickness. 

“You see?” the Dark Lord asks them as he walks up and down the length of Potter's prone figure. Draco feels a scream bubbling, fighting to break free, and he makes a choked sound and Weasley nudges him, a silent communication, though Draco has no idea what he means by it. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!” 

“Liar!” Draco's voice rips from him like a wild wind ripping up a tree. Weasley shouts at the same moment, voice strong and sure. “He beat you!” 

Instantly the charm is broken and around him the crowd's voice surges as one. Draco is a mess of anger and fear, anxiety and something that tastes of bravery on the tip of his tongue. Another light, blinding and powerful stifles their voices before the crowd can gather their fury enough for magic. 

“He was killed,” the Dark Lord hisses, “while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds, killed while trying to save himself—”

Longbottom pushes forward out of nowhere, his face red with his anger. He gets only far enough that he stands just before Draco before he is Disarmed and crumples to the ground. The Dark Lord tosses Longbottom's wand aside like rubbish. “And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?” 

There is a long silence and, when no answer is forthcoming, the Dark Lord steps forward, leering down at Longbottom. “Who are you, my brave boy?” 

Longbottom—the brazen fool—spits at the Dark Lord's feet and the Dark Lord hisses. “Neville Longbottom,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Longbottom? Yes, I've heard of the trouble you've caused at school.” The Dark Lord pauses, turning something over in his mind. “But you are a pureblood, aren't you?” 

“So what if I am?” 

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom. 

“I'll join you when hell freezes over! Dumbledore's Army!” 

Around him, the crowd cheers and Draco is immediately caught up in it. He screams out his assent, his affirmation, his loyalty to a cause he'd never thought he would fight for. 

“Very well.” The Dark Lord's red eyes seem to strip Longbottom to the bone. His voice is cold and smooth, and Draco recognizes the danger in it and his throat goes tight, choking him. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it.” 

Draco's body is shaking without his consent. The bravery of moments before is gone in the face of that voice and the look in those horrible, red eyes. Draco is all too familiar with what that look means; that is the look that killed the Muggle Studies professor in Draco's own home; that is the look before he makes Draco watch as he tortures a muggle from a nearby town. The Dark Lord's wand moves and Draco flinches, sure he is about to watch Longbottom be killed too, but instead nothing happens for a long moment. 

Then the Dark Lord catches something, holding it for the crowd to see. “There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” he tells them, Sorting Hat held aloft. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, the shield, and the colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?” 

He points his wand at Longbottom, who goes still and stiff as stone, and then he places the hat on Longbottom's head, allowing it to fall over his eyes. The Dark Lord smiles, slow and deliberate. “Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.” 

He flicks his wand like an executioner raising an ax and the Sorting Hat erupts in flames. Screams fill the air as the crowd watches horrified as Longbottom's head is engulfed. 

“Potter didn't die for this,” Dracao whispers, and before he can think what he is doing he is raising his wand in a shaking hand, intent on dousing the flames but before he can manage it, there is a sound from the distant boundary of the school, and then the next instant a giant—though only half the size of the usual giant—appears from around the castle, shouting, “HAGGER!” 

Immediately the giants in the Dark Lord's ranks roar and charge, shaking the ground like mini earthquakes. 

Draco doesn't know which way to look, and the next moment he is overwhelmed by arrows flying through the air and scattering the Death Eaters. Chaos falls on them again, and Draco stumbles to the ground as the quaking of the earth upsets his balance. He slips on the last stone step, cutting his hand again, though he pays it no mind because his gaze has found Potter's lifeless form. 

A desperate urge takes him, but before he can rush to Potter's body, Longbottom frees himself, throwing the flaming hat into Draco's line of sight. Draco looks up in time to watch him pull a glistening sword from the flaming hat and, in one fluid motion, swing the sword around to cut the head off of the Dark Lord's snake. 

Something ripples through the crowd as everyone watches through the wildness of battle as the snake's head sails through the air. Something shimmers before Longbottom, and Draco whirls around, trying to find Potter's body, but it's gone. 

“HARRY!” Hagrid's voice carries over the din, somehow louder than the giants and the centaurs and the magic singing through the air. “HARRY—WHERE'S HARRY?” 

Draco's heart hurts for the half-giant, a kinship he never thought he would feel. This night could be his last, but it is a night of many firsts. 

Overhead, thestrals and a hippogriff attack the giants, as below the centaurs continue to unleash their arrows upon the Death Eaters. A shadow passes over Draco, and he looks up to see a massive foot coming towards him. 

“Malfoy!” Weasley drags him bodily out of harms way, pulling him to his feet with a grunt. “Pay attention.” 

“Potter—”

“Don't,” Weasley snarls. There are still tears in his eyes and he looks paler than usual beneath his freckles. “Just—just fight. Okay? Harry believed in you, so—so fight. For us. For him.” 

Draco nods, lifting his wand. “After you,” he says, a little archly, and he gestures for Weasley to take the lead. 

He has never felt particularly invested in Weasley as a person, but they charge into the school, fighting Death Eaters as though they have always done this together. Weasley is stronger than Draco, but Draco is more graceful and they mesh well. Draco's defensive spells encase them at just the right second, while Weasley flings curses through Draco's shields at passing enemies. 

“Good one!” Weasley shouts at him as he sends a Death Eater careening into the wall opposite them. Draco feels a laugh bubbling. It has been the weirdest, most surreal night of his life; he is exhausted and grief-stricken, and the only thing keeping him going is adrenaline and anger and a desperate need to find Potter's body, to know for sure. 

“Not so bad yourself,” he calls to Weasley, and then he sees his father and he goes cold. His shield falls and he takes a nasty curse that sends him flying away from Weasley. 

“Draco!” his mother screams, her voice resonating through the hall and over the battle. His heart clenches in his chest to hear her voice. 

He sits up, his arm bleeding profusely and making his head spin, but his mother is there, her elegant hands lifting him to her, her arms wrapping around him as she quietly cries. “You're alive,” she breathes. “Thank Merlin.” 

“Thank Potter,” Draco says with a laugh, feeling delirious. 

Narcissa pulls away, giving him an odd look. “He did take care of you, then?” 

“Y-yes,” he says quietly, the knowledge that Potter is gone hitting him anew. 

A spell nearly hits them, but someone has cast a powerful Shield Charm and they are safe. 

“I will have to thank him then,” Narcissa whispers. Draco doesn't understand her words, but before he can ask she hauls him to his feet, keeping him close, her wand held aloft. “That isn't your wand.” 

“It is,” Draco tells her gently, gripping it a bit tightly. “Potter needed mine, and Ollivander... he made me this.” 

“You have much to tell me.” 

“I do. But can it wait until we aren't fighting for our lives?” He tries to smile at her, tries to be reassuring, but he knows it is a pathetic attempt. She humors him nonetheless. 

Another spell flies at them, but this time there is an old, grizzly house-elf to stop the attack. He croaks, his voice like a frog, “For Master Regulus!” and throws a Death Eater back with a powerful burst of magic. Beside the grizzly elf, there is another, all-too-familiar one. 

“Dobby!” Draco cries out in surprise. 

Dobby almost shrinks from Draco and his mother, but he fights against the urge, holding himself proud as he and the other house-elf fight the onslaught. 

“For Harry Potter!” Dobby screams. It ignites Draco's soul to hear it and he jumps back into the fray, giving a hearty cry of agreement. His mother is hot on his heels, casting spells as though she is performing in a ballet. 

They push through the crowd together, fighting Death Eaters back with a vengeance. Draco recalls the distaste his mother had held for their unwelcome guests, and he imagines this is all too cathartic for her. 

“And you will never darken our doorstep again!” Narcissa shouts, sending Yaxley flying through the air. 

Draco laughs, but it dies in his throat when he sees his father dueling Granger and Weasley's sister and—

“LUNA!” he shouts, breaking away from his mother. 

“Draco, wait!” she runs after him, ducking through the chaos. 

A spell flies past Weasley's sister, its green light a sickening glow that almost touches her, but just misses. 

“LUCIUS!” His mother's voice is not the only one who shouts this time. Weasley's mother is charging forward, wand drawn and face beat red. 

“OUT OF MY WAY!” Mrs. Weasley shoves through the final barrier between her and Draco's father, and she casts a spell that knocks him off his feet. 

He lands hard with a grunt on the stone floor, wand clattering and rolling away from him. It hits Draco's shoe, rolling under the raised toe of his boot as though it wants nothing more than to be crushed. Draco stares down at it, his breath caught in his throat. 

“You brought this upon us.” His mother's voice trembles like a song bid's. “You brought this into our home, Lucius.” 

“Narcissa, please,” he begs. “Draco...” 

Draco looks up, tearing his gaze away from the wand just under his foot. His father is a defeated, pathetic man now, but he recalls with a pang the man his father had been. He narrows his eyes, sneering, and, with as much strength as he can muster, he brings the heal of his boot down on his father's wand, snapping it to bits. 

“N-no!” Lucius cries. “Ho—Draco, how could you?” 

“I denounce you, Father,” Draco tells him, and his soul feels lighter for it. The last vestiges of doubt fly away from him, and he points his wand at his father. His mother's wand joins his, and then Mrs. Weasley's, and then, the youngest Weasley's wand joins them. 

“You—you bastard,” she says. “I wish you'd die, you know that? I wish—I wish we could just kill you—”

“I only did what I had—”

There is a bright flash of light from the tip of Ginny's wand and his father's nose is bleeding. “Did you have to give me that diary?” Ginny asks, tears streaming down her face. “Did you?” 

“I—”

 _“Incarcerous,”_ Narcissa whispers. “We've had enough of your lies, Lucius.” 

The Dark Lord's scream breaks the moment, and Draco whirls to see three people flung away from him. 

_“Protego!”_ a familiar voice shouts, carrying over the crowd. A shielfd shimmers, expanding in the middle of the hall as Draco's heart skips a beat. 

“That voice—” Draco's wand clatters to the floor and his knees give out. It is only thanks to his mother that he does not hit the ground as he stares at Potter, standing at the center of the madness. Potter has appeared out of thin air, and he stands in the predawn light from the enchanted ceiling, an answer to their prayers. His cloak swirls around him, silver like mercury, and his green eyes flash. 

“Harry!” 

“HE'S ALIVE!” 

The shouting subsides all at once, as though breath has been stolen from them with a spell, though none has been cast. Draco watches, tears in his eyes, cradled in his mothers arms, as Potter and the Dark Lord circle each other. 

“I don't want anyone else to try to help. It's got to be like this. It's got to be me.” 

Draco wants to laugh because it is so like Potter to come waltzing in, postmortem, making outlandish declarations. 

“Potter doesn't mean that,” the Dark Lord hisses. “This isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?” 

“Nobody! There are no more Horcruxes. It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good.” 

“One of us? You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling strings?” 

“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?” Potter asks. He is completely focused on the Dark Lord, just as the Dark Lord is on him; it seems that the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving just the two of them. They circle one another, as everyone else watches on with baited breath. Outside, Draco can still hear the giants beating the earth like drums. 

“Accident when I decided to fight in the graveyard? Accident that I didn't defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?” 

_“Accidents!”_ Draco has never seen the Dark Lord so frantic, so fearful. He seems, to Draco, incredibly small, like a garden snake that has found itself lost amongst his mother's roses. The Dark Lord looks sick and grey in the light from the ceiling, while Potter radiates with power. “Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!” 

“You won't be killing anyone else tonight. You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people—”

“But you did not!” The Dark Lord grasped onto this fact like a man desperate for water might grasp a goblet. 

“I meant to, and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?” 

_You dare—”_

“Yes, I dare,” Potter says, and Draco wants to laugh at his cheek, but he is still frozen in shock and elation and trepidation and so many other feelings flying around inside him. “I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?” 

“Is it love again?” Voldemort asks, face contorting. “Dumbledore's favourite solution, _love_ , which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? _Love,_ which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter—and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?” 

“Just one thing.” Potter's confidence makes him seem all the stronger, and seems to anger the Dark Lord. 

“If it is not love that will save you this time, you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?” 

“I believe both.” 

The Dark Lord's laugh is tinged with desperation. Potter's confidence has chipped away at him, and Draco can see the truth of him being revealed as the mask cracks. There are others who shiver at the sound, Draco feels Luna shudder beside him, but he has heard the Dark Lord's laughter many times. He knows this is only a shadow of the Dark Lord, a poor attempt at bravado. “You think _you_ know more magic than I do? Than _I_ , than Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?” 

“Oh, he dreamed of it,” Potter says offhandedly, as though he is deciding he doesn't really need to pick up eggs at the market today. “But he knew more than you, knew enough not to do what you've done.” 

“You mean he was weak! Too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, what will be mine!” 

“No, he was cleverer than you, a better wizard, a better man.” 

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!” 

“You thought you did, but you were wrong.” 

Around him, there are gasps, but Draco only hears the words ringing in his head over and over. His heart beats louder in his ears, and he grips the fabric of his mother's robes tight in his hands. He does not want to hear what Potter will say, how Potter will damn him. 

_”Dumbledore is dead!_ His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!” 

“Yes, Dumbledore's dead, but you didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant.” 

It echoes around Draco like a ghost. He feels a laugh bubbling, but he covers his mouth, unwilling and unable to interrupt Potter's final showdown. He wants them to stop talking, he wants Potter to stop sharing the details of his own turmoil with the whole of the castle, he wants him to finish the Dark Lord off, but they circle ever onward, locked in a strange dance. 

“What childish dream is this?” 

“Severus Snape wasn't yours. Snape was Dumbledore's, Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?” 

The Dark Lord did not answer. Potter's expression was indecipherable as he went on, “Snape's Patronus was a doe, the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children. You should have realised, he asked you to spare her life, didn't he?” 

“He desired her, that was all, but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him—”

“Of course he told you that, but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!” 

“It matters not!” The Dark Lord cackled, his laughter bubbling from him and filling the hall. “It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's, or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great _love_! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand! Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy—I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!” 

Potter was smiling. “Yeah, it did. You're right. But before you try to kill me, I'd advise you to think about what you've done... Think, and try for som remorse, Riddle...” 

“What is this?” 

Draco couldn't see the Dark Lord's face from where he stood, but he could hear the hitch in his voice, the fear and confusion. 

“It's your last chance,” Potter went on, “it's all you've got left... I've seen what you'll be otherwise... Be a man...try... Try for some remorse...” 

“You dare—?” 

“Yes, I dare, because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle.” 

Tension rippled from the Dark Lord, coming off him in waves. He was standing still now, watching Potter with an intensity that belied his concerns. 

“The wand still isn't working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person,” Potter finally says. “Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore.” 

It hits Draco like a Stunning Spell before Potter even says the words. He remembers, in a flash, the green light of the Dark Mark hovering above the Astronomy tower, Dumbledore frail and weak, begging him after—after he'd—

“—Dumbledore's death was planned between them!” Potter's voice rings around the hall, pulling Draco from memories he wants only to forget. “Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!” 

“But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand! I stole the wand from its last master's tomb! I removed it against its last master's wishes! Its power is mine!” 

“You still don't get it, Riddle, do you? Posessing the wand isn't enough! Holding it, using it, doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? _The wand chooses the wizard..._ The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance...” 

Draco wonders if Potter had known this when they had been sharing living quarters for a month. Is that why he refused to give Draco back his wand? Or was it just chance that had Potter taking his wand from him that night? Was it mere coincidence that he'd decided to keep and use Draco's wand over the others? 

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy,” Potter says, and the words have his mother gripping him tight, nails digging unconsciously into his arm as she pulls him closer to her. 

“But what does it matter?” the Dark Lord asks. “Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone... and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy...” 

His mother's gasp is drowned out by Potter's words. “But you're too late. You've missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him.” 

His wand—his first wand—looks different in Potter's hands. Draco has never noticed, but the hawthorn looks stronger when held by Potter. 

“So it all comes down to this, doesn't it? Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand.” 

As Potter and the Dark Lord raise their wands, sunlight breaks through the gray of predawn, casting the two—in their final face-off—in a fiery light. Draco watches Potter lift his wand with baited breath, a silent prayer escaping his lips on a sigh. 

_Please... Please, let him win._

Light bursts from Draco's former wand—a brilliant red. _”Expelliarmus!”_

A green jet shoots towards Potter, flying from the Elder Wand like a hawk. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

The sound is deafening. Draco's ears ring in the wake of the colliding spells. He squints, staring through golden flames to where a lone figure stands, two wands in hand. 

The enchanted glow from the ceiling grows, falling over Potter like a blessing. He stares down at the Dark Lord's corpse, peace finally falling across his face. The peace of the moment last only a few seconds, and then everyone is screaming their joy. Draco watches as Weasley and Granger race to Potter, encircling him in their arms, followed by Luna, Ginny, and Longbottom; then the rest of the Weasleys and more. 

Draco watches with his mother, feeling Potter's pull, but afraid to enter his orbit. 

“Won't you go to him?” his mother asks quietly. 

He shakes his head. “I—what can I offer that everyone else hasn't?” 

“Your wand is the wand that helped him, is it not?” She nudges him. “Go.” 

Draco swallows, glancing back at his father. Lucius is staring about the hall, still bound, and utterly useless without his wand. He sneers, turns back to his mother and places a kiss on her cheek, and with a muttered, “Thank you,” he breaks away from her, winding his way through the adoring masses towards the center where Potter is being bombarded. 

Draco does not think he will make it to the center until someone notices him. 

“It's Malfoy,” Jordan says, nudging people aside. 

Draco walks through the slowly parting crowd, whispers following him. 

“Can you believe he was the master of the Elder Wand?” 

“Good thing he never knew, eh?” 

Draco ignores them, lifting his head high and walking through the slowly parting crowd. When he reaches the center, Potter's closest friends have all of his focus, though he looks tired and worn. He smiles for them, his eyes shining like evergreens, but Draco sees his exhaustion for he feels it too. Perhaps now, having been the master of the Elder Wand, he shares something with Potter, something unnameable and deep that helps him understand the other man better than he ever thought possible. 

Potter seems to sense him, for he looks past his friends to Draco, and smiles. 

A feeling rushes through him, intense like the sun, and he pushes closer, into the throng of Potter's friends. 

“Well, well, if isn't Harry Potter, the great hero of the Wizarding World,” he drawls. 

Around him, Potter's friends finally take notice. 

“Malfoy, don't start being a prat again—”

“Careful, Weasley, as former master of the Elder Wand, I am very powerful.” 

Potter laughs, a glorious and genuine laugh, the exhaustion chased away for a brief moment, and suddenly he is pulling Draco into him and wrapping him in his arms, shaking with laughter. “Thank you,” he whispers against Draco's ear, and they are so close that Draco can feel the tears on Potter's cheek as it presses against his own. He pulls away before Draco can decide what he's meant to do, but he is frozen to the spot, warm and terrified. He can feel his cheeks burning as everyone watches on, grinning and laughing, and then, “Cheers to Malfoy's wand!” 

The laughter grows around him, more people vying to get as close to Potter as they can; to touch him; to thank him; to hold him; to cry to him. It is unnerving being this close to the gratitude of so many, especially when they turn their grateful eyes on him and thank him for his own bravery. 

“All I did was lose my wand,” he mutters a handful of times, but no one seems to hear him. 

It takes far too long for the excitement to die down, but eventually, as he is finally becoming too overwhelmed and too exhausted, McGonagall replaces the House tables and the Dark Lord's body is taken away, and there is food being passed around as people laugh and heal. At the window, the small giant who'd cried for Hagrid peers in, watching them and eating food that is thrown into his waiting mouth. 

Draco sits with Luna and Potter, his mother beside him, and he feels peaceful. There will be more difficult choices to make, choices that scare him, choices that define him, but they will come later. 

“I'd want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” Luna says to Potter while Draco muses quietly. He turns to look at Potter on Luna's other side. He catches Draco's eye and gives him a small, tired smile. 

“I'd love some,” Potter agrees. 

“I'll distract them all,” Luna says. “Draco can help, can't you?” 

“Help Potter?” he asks with a cheeky grin. “Never.” 

Potter's smile grows. 

“Use your cloak,” Luna tells him. “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” 

Potter disappears all at once, as Luna points dramatically out the window. 

“Oh, I see it, too!” Draco offers. He feels a bit silly, a bit giddy, but it is worth it when Potter passes him and touches his shoulder in silent thanks. He turns to watch the air, imaging Potter as he leaves to go find himself some much needed and wholly deserved quiet.

He turns back to Luna, leaning his head on her shoulder, needing a bit of his own peace and quiet. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks him. 

Draco smiles. “Truthfully, I feel tired.” 

“And besides that?” 

“I feel...” Draco searches for what to say, but he is too exhausted for all the complicated emotions stirring in him just beneath the fatigue. One thin he does know, however, is quite simple. 

“I've made a decision.” 

“About?” Luna asks, her voice knowing. He is glad for the dreaminess of it, glad that the nightmare is gone. 

“About how I want to help.” 

“You've already helped so much,” Luna tells him, and he shakes his head. 

“Not yet, I haven't. But I will.” 

Luna pats his thigh, taking his hand in hers. “I'm glad to hear it.” 

Draco takes his mother's hand in his free one and closes his eyes, letting the fatigue wash over him and pull him into half-dreams. 

“Sleep well, my little dragon,” his mother whispers so only he can hear. 

For the first time in two years, he does.


End file.
